Ange de Noël
by Kagome1514
Summary: Lured by the music, Erik enters a church during its Christmas mass. There, a certain girl in the choir catches his attention. Intoxicated by her beauty and her angelic voice, he decides that he must find a way into her life. EC. AU.
1. Divine

**A/N: Just a little Christmas fic (well, Christmas-centric; it extends a little bit beyond just Christmas). I also found the idea of Erik wandering into a church irresistible. Hehe. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to **_**The Phantom of the Opera**_**; the characters belong to Gaston Leroux (and I've taken great liberties with them, I'm sure). **

**Summary: Lured by the music, Erik enters a church during its Christmas mass. There, a certain girl in the choir catches his attention. Intoxicated by her beauty and her angelic voice, he decides that he must find a way into her life. EC. AU. **

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_Ange de Noël_

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Chapter One: Divine

Erik huffed, his breath fogging up the air. His arms remained tucked against his side, his fhands in his pockets, even as his trench coat whipped at his long pant legs thanks to how quickly he walked. Christmas was in the air. There were cheerful decorations and happy faces everywhere. Lampposts got bedecked in twinkle lights and garlands with large, red bows; window displays beckoned shoppers in. It disgusted him. He felt especially bitter around Christmastime because everyone else was so happy; everyone had warmth in their hearts and people to be with while he had nothing. He had perhaps one person, but Erik didn't think that he counted. The Middle Eastern man was annoying, and Erik pretended that they weren't friends (when, in fact, the man was his only friend). He put up with him because the man had rescued him from a tricky situation in Paris, helping him get to the United States. He even helped him earn citizenship in the country so that he could stay legally. It started with earning asylum. He earned it practically just by unmasking. That had been over twenty years ago.

He lived a rather peaceful existence—peaceful but lonely. He left his trouble and his past back in Paris.

He minded his own business and stayed out of trouble. More often than not, he wore a flesh-toned mask that covered the majority of his face, leaving his jaw bare since it appeared normal. The only other normal thing about his head was his ears; his ears were perfect, part of God's cruel joke on him: horrible face; genius with music. If people didn't look closely enough, it could be difficult to decipher that he wore a mask since the color looked like skin—made to match his particular shade. He was as white as a ghost everywhere except his true face, which was horribly discolored.

At home, he favored something that adhered less and was, therefore, more comfortable. The rest of his so-called face looked like Death, so he covered it up so that no one would have to see the atrocity. He always wore a wig to cover up the fact that he had no real hair to speak of—just a few strands here and there. Since the few strands that he had were black, he wore a black wig styled with short hair.

The only things that he had to keep him content were a single-bedroom apartment in a complex that assured great privacy and his music. His music was the one aspect of his life that kept him going, the only reason that he still bothered to live and breathe the icy, night air.

A man dressed as Santa rang a bell, calling for charity for his little bucket. He asked of Erik to donate; Erik ignored him, brushing right on past, sneering once he was past. He abhorred pity, and charity coincided with it. No, he just wanted to get home and get away from all the glittering lights and laughter, the chattering voices and hand-holding. He'd made a mistake venturing out to eat dinner with his mentor at the man's home. True, the food was delicious, and the company was mildly appreciated, but he still longed for a real companion—in particular, a female companion.

He'd never known the love of a woman, and even his cold, bitter heart dreamed of experiencing at least one kiss before he died. He wanted what most men throw away: a place to call home instead of just shelter; someone to come home to; someone to love, who would love him back. He didn't feel like he belonged anywhere; he felt as if he had no purpose. He was quite sure that no one would ever hear his music, which was depressing for the fact that it was his greatest dream for the world to love him for his music. However, the world would never hear it. He didn't even play it for his mentor.

There was still that little boy in him that dreamed of kindness, of sweet angels smiling at him with mercy, regardless of his horribly disfigured face. He longed for even just a hug. His only connection to society wasn't the sort of man to hug. No, that wasn't true; he probably just felt uncomfortable—or thought that Erik would be uncomfortable—with a hug. Erik vaguely recalled that perhaps he'd once attempted one, around the time that he rescued him from the trouble in Paris when he was a young teenager, but he'd ruined it by pushing him away. The man hadn't tried since.

He was about halfway through his walk home when he came upon a church. The building sat on his right. He stood and admired the architecture; it was perhaps one of the few decent ones in the city. The Americans knew nothing of great architecture; their buildings were cold and empty shells, but this church was beautiful. It in no way rivaled _Notre-Dame_ or even _Sacré Cœur_, but it was respectable. He wondered if the architect was an American or if the person hailed from someplace like Rome or Paris—someplace with culture. He highly doubted that this lovely building was built by an American; if it were, they must have been influenced by Europe.

Erik turned, preparing to resume walking when music poured out through the open double doors at the top of the cement steps. Curious, he rotated his body back so that he faced the doors. Like a siren call, the sound of a choir singing drew him in. He couldn't begin to think why it attracted him. He'd heard many choirs before, many of which were abysmal. This one was surprisingly decent; they blended nicely. From the sound of it, which was the only thing that mattered with music, the organist wasn't bad, but the musician wasn't awe-inspiring, either.

He let the music pull him in, figuring that he could afford to take a little time off before heading home. As he stood in the foyer, he checked his new wristwatch—a Christmas present from his only companion—in the dim lighting. It was a digital thing with a screen that could light up if one pressed a button on the side. Apparently, it was waterproof, though he doubted that he would have a need for this particular attribute. He suspected that his friend bought it because he knew that Erik wouldn't favor a metal one. After all, he liked to be as invisible as possible, and light glinting off the metal tended to give one away.

The time read 11:36 PM. He deduced that the choir singing was the opening to the midnight mass.

Cautiously stepping into the sanctuary, he told himself that he would only stay a few minutes. He slid into a pew in the back, glad to find it empty. His heart rate quickened at the sight of the massive pipe organ up against the front wall; his fingers itched to play it, so he pinned his hands to his lap. Regardless, he soon fingered along on his thighs and a little in the air; his feet worked invisible pedals. Someone coughed, and Erik gritted his teeth. It wasn't the man's fault (necessarily), but it did ruin the song for a moment.

While his hands and feet worked on playing along with the organist, his eyes roved over the choir with the idle intent of discovering who seemed to really enjoy singing and who did it for the attention gleaned just by standing in the public eye. The choir had both male and female singers, young and old, from teens to the elderly; they appeared to be arranged by sections: soprano, alto, tenor, and bass—very typical. Each member wore a white robe. It was both amusing and irritating that many of the young singers looked like zombies. Granted, it was late at night; however, he felt that they should all have the decency to force some energy to have corresponding facial expressions for the respective carols. Currently, they sang "Angels We Have Heard on High" or, as he knew it, with its proper title, _"Les Anges dans Nos Campagnes"_. Even after all this time in America, he couldn't get used to hearing the English versions of French carols—such as "O Holy Night". To him, it would always be _"Minuit, Chrétiens"_.

He had to admit: he liked Christmas carols. Almost all of them were beautiful. Despite his hatred of his creator, he preferred the religious ones more than the secular pieces; their styles were more classical. He was quite a stickler—quite a purist—when it came to music. He couldn't stand most of the garbage that others dared to call music. In his mind, nothing could ever top classical or opera. Other styles could be enjoyable and downright entertaining, but none could match the grace of the aforementioned genres.

Deep down, he wanted to like Christmas. Unfortunately, his bitterness concerning his miserable solitude prevented him from enjoying it. If he somehow miraculously found someone to share it with, he might let himself bask in it.

In the lull between songs, his eyes finally came down to sweep over the front row—the ones who stood on the stage itself instead of the risers. His breath caught in his throat; he just stopped breathing altogether for a few seconds. His whole body stilled. There, in the center, stood a demure girl who looked to be in her teenage years. Her face was rather long and slender, making for an odd contrast with her petite and slim body. She couldn't be more than five feet in height. Her golden locks fell nearly to her decent-sized breasts in waves; her blue eyes shone with a warm, gentle light. She appeared to wear no make-up, and he loved her for it; she didn't need it. If she were wearing some, it was very light.

She was gorgeous without it. Her lips and cheeks were naturally rosy, complimenting her eyes. She had a very nice complexion. She had a beautiful smile.

Clearly, she had the most heartfelt expression. His eyes remained glued to her throughout the program—even as the preacher spoke. She so distracted him that he stopped everything in his mind, his body remaining still, just to regard her. His higher functioning disappeared as he drank in the sight of her and the sounds floating to his ears. He'd never felt this way before, but he wanted to be near her; he wanted to hear her sing; he wanted to speak to her. Since the choir blended beautifully, he couldn't begin to pick out one voice from another. He couldn't imagine her voice, because he felt certain that his imagination wouldn't do it justice. He knew just from the pure joy in her eyes and smile that she truly loved singing—loved music in general.

He liked it when the choir picked back up near the end of the man's speech. He didn't like listening to all the religious talk; he wanted to sit and listen to the music. He wanted to watch _her _perform more.

They began "O Little Town of Bethlehem". He recognized it as the one most popular in the United States, which made sense. It became one of his favorites simply because the dear little singer seemed to love it so tenderly. He noted that she raised her eyebrows every so often. Unlike some of her companions, she kept her hands at her sides instead of moving some hair out of the way or scratching an itch. She struck him as dedicated and professional.

Following this, they did "Ding Dong! Merrily on High," which proved to be another favorite of hers.

The one thing that really disappointed him about the performances throughout the evening: there were soloists, but his favorite singer never stepped forward and sang by herself.

He told himself that he was foolish for assuming that she had a beautiful voice; his mind pointed out that maybe her outer beauty intoxicated him, and it could turn out that her voice was mediocre…or worse. Church choirs weren't always professional. However, this one seemed like its singers were carefully groomed, so he let himself come to the conclusion that she must have a heavenly voice. He didn't even have the chance to ask himself where she might be section-wise; the answer butted in immediately: _soprano; she's a soprano_.

The choir performed a few more carols before they sang "O Holy Night". For a moment, it seemed as if she might step forward to sing solo; bitter disappointment soured his stomach when he found that she merely shifted to allow a fellow soprano easier access down to the microphone.

"And now, performing 'O Holy Night' with the aid of Miss Phillips on the organ and our choir, Miss Carlotta Guidicelli." Everyone applauded except for Erik, who sneered, certain that she would be awful.

The soloist looked full of herself, and she wasn't even terribly attractive. If people's voices could sound how they looked, hers would be mediocre. This got him musing that he'd be a very handsome man if beauty were based on voices.

Ironically, this Carlotta's voice matched her face: not quite ugly but not very attractive. He knew that the little angel with the golden hair and sweet, blue eyes would have done better—would have brought tears to every eye in the room, including his own. Instead of watching the soloist, whom he basically ignored (or tried to), he watched _her. _

He noted immediately that she loved this one as much—if not more—than "O Little Town of Bethlehem". It drove him mad that he couldn't hear her sing individually. He wanted to hear her sing this one especially, because it had always been one of his favorites. In his mind, he questioned angrily as if speaking to her, as if he knew her at such a personal level that he could scold her, _'Why aren't you singing the solo?' _

His disappointment had turned to frustration mixed with irritation. If the piece had a soloist, and the blonde beauty clearly loved the carol well, why wasn't she singing the solo? It began to infuriate him. The organ and the choir were just background—important for the song but not the main event.

The soloist began to grate on his nerves more and more as the song progressed; her voice wobbled with forced vibrato; her high notes were forced. She pushed out the all-important high B-flat near the end so that it was barely sung at all; it was more like she screamed it. At the end, she simpered and bowed at the audience; as she bowed, her dark hair slid forward like a curtain closing. In his head, Erik cursed her in his native tongue. His cursing turned to heart-wrenching lamentation as he mentally begged the blonde why she hadn't sung. Even without knowing her, he felt it in his gut that she had it in her to do it, which made everything all the more frustrating.

The night wore on; the parishioners were encouraged to sing along as more carols got performed. The final one of the night was "Silent Night". He spied that this was another favorite with the little angel in front.

Before this final carol, the pastor's tone of voice warned that things were winding down as he stated, "Please join me in thanking Miss Phillips for her lovely accompaniment; unfortunately, tonight will be the last night that we will have her aid. If anyone here can play the organ," a few chuckles arose, "please feel free to volunteer your services. We shall sorely miss it. Granted, we do have the piano here, so we shan't be too forlorn, but it will be a profound loss. Thank you, Miss Phillips. We pray that your move goes smoothly, and that your mother will feel God's healing touch."

All too soon, "Silent Night" ended. He was quite saddened when the pastor thanked everyone for coming, signaling that the event was over. People began to stand in preparation to file out. He hastened to get up and hide in the shadows of the foyer in order to avoid the inevitable staring. It tore his heart out that he had to leave the room that contained his object of admiration, for he knew well that he would probably never see her again.

When the coast was clear, he slipped back into the sanctuary. His heart skipped a beat. His angel remained in the room, smiling as she listened to an old woman converse with her. The two females were alone in the room; even the pastor had left. The old woman was dressed in a very nice, black dress with long sleeves; she also wore her winter coat and high heels to match the dress. A gold necklace bearing a small cross glittered at her chest. She had her white hair slicked back into a French twist so that the delicate, dangly earrings were more easily visible. She struck him as very wealthy, which he found odd when he took in the teen's appearance: a plain, white dress with three-quarter sleeves with smaller heels to match. She wore a silver cross, which sat upon the bare skin of her chest revealed by a modest V-neckline. The best word to describe her, he decided, was _modest_. He could tell from her little closed-lip smile that she was quiet and demure.

"Christine, _you _should have sung that solo! Your voice would have blown everyone away. You would have made me cry! That Carlotta's much too full of herself; she sings for the glory and not for the love of the music! _You _sing for the music, and it shows!"

'_Christine… What a perfect name. Christine, Christine, Christine…' _He sighed, soaking it in like a hot bath. His brain went silent when she spoke. His eyes almost stung with tears at the sweet, gentle, soft-spoken voice that tickled his ears. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg her to speak to him. He'd settle for a simple, kind 'Hello,' though he certainly wouldn't mind a 'Merry Christmas'.

"Mama Valerius, you _know _that I have horrible stage fright. If I had gone through with it, I would have stood there, and nothing would have come out, and I'd have been mortified! I'm much happier being in the choir, hidden; at least no one's attention is solely on me."

He didn't even process her words at first, so his smile remained until he frowned darkly. Her speaking voice alone told him that she had a pleasant quality to her tone. She enunciated her words, speaking with precision. Even as she used a low volume, her voice reverberated around the open, silent room. How dare she want to _hide _it? How dare she?

The elderly woman (Mama Valerius, he reminded himself) sighed, complaining, "Christine, my dear, God has given you a tremendous gift, and it's like you're throwing it away! Whatever happened to your desire to be an opera singer, hm?"

His heart began to race. She wanted to be an opera singer—an opera singer! An _opera _singer! It so excited him that his giddiness made him dizzy; he gripped at the pew near him for support. He frowned anew when the girl murmured, "That's just a vague dream. I'm getting too old for it, anyway."

"Nonsense! You're sixteen! You'll be seventeen in four days! _Three _now that it's past midnight! You're only a junior in high school! Most opera singers are much older. I don't know much about singing, but I do know that it takes time for a voice to mature, and it must take years of training to become an opera singer. You still have plenty of time!" She paused before commenting, "I also know that you have the most _beautiful _voice I've ever heard." She abruptly commanded, "Now, sing!"

"What?" the blonde laughed. "No… Mama Valerius, let's just go home. I'm tired."

"You heard me! _Sing_! I want you to make up for how I had to sit through that other girl singing what should have been _your _song. No one's ever sung 'O Holy Night' as beautifully as you do, and I'm not leaving this spot until you make me cry like you always do with your angelic voice! Now, _sing_!"

Christine shook her head, murmuring, "I can't. I'll…cry. You know how hard this time of year is for me. I'm amazed that I held it together tonight. I had to practically dissociate to do it."

"Christine, I do know how hard it is for you, but it's been almost three years since your father passed away—God rest his soul. You love Christmas; you should open your heart and enjoy it. He stuck around until the New Year, I believe, to see that you had a merry Christmas and a happy birthday, so you shouldn't dwell on how sick he was at this time of year. You've always loved Christmas, and you made us all love it, too. Your father would want you to be happy; it's supposed to be your favorite time of year! In fact, he'd be horribly disappointed right now. I'm sure he's saddened at the fact that he has yet to hear his beautiful daughter sing for him."

She tiredly retorted, "He can hear me sing at home. He can hear me sing _anywhere_, really."

"Yes, but you've told me countless times that you love the acoustics here. Why not sing here?"

Blinking tiredly, she murmured, a hint of a sigh in her tone, "Normally, I'd indulge you, but I'm tired. I feel like I'm asleep on my feet—my eyes aren't even focusing anymore."

Heaving a sigh, Mama Valerius conceded, "All right. We'll get you home, then…but _tomorrow_ we'll come by, and you'll sing for me."

"Here?"

"Yes, here! The acoustics are better than what we've got at home."

"That is true," the singer conceded, beaming. "Tomorrow, then, after everyone leaves, I'll sing for you."

The woman looped their arms together, patting Christine's hand as she smilingly replied, "Thank you, dear. Now, let's get going. I think that the endorphins are starting to wear off. I'm beginning to feel the fatigue now, too."

Erik slipped away before they could notice him, again hiding in the foyer. He waited for them to pass before he crept across the open space and peeked around the doorframe to watch them descend the steps. Christine very conscientiously helped her companion down the steps without a word; she merely smiled at the woman. Conversation resumed as they walked along the sidewalk; they spoke of their plans for Christmas morning—stockings, opening presents from each other, going to church, going to brunch, the general relaxation of the holiday. Although he wanted to, Erik refrained from following them; thus, their voices became fainter the farther that they traveled, disappearing altogether after an unfairly short amount of time.

"Did you enjoy the mass?"

Erik jumped, horrified that someone had managed to sneak up on him. No one ever sneaked up on him. He couldn't believe that he let himself get so distracted. Rather than get snide with the kindly pastor, Erik decided to use this moment to his advantage. He inquired, a hint of a French accent clinging to his words, "Are you truly looking for a new organist?"

The man blinked, undoubtedly taking in his mask; his lips parted with a bit of surprise. "Yes…we are."

"I should very much like to fill this position."

The pastor blinked some more. "Ah, yes, well, we would very much like to have you—no matter your skill level."

Erik demanded with a hint of danger to his tone, "Why do you assume that I lack skill? Is it because of my mask? Do you think that I'm ashamed of my awful playing, which is why I hide my face?"

He didn't bat an eyelash; he just replied, "No. I was just stating that your skill level doesn't particularly matter in the instance that you lack strength in it. …If you don't mind me asking, why do you hide your face?"

His defenses rose. "Because God never gave me a proper one. Is it going to be a problem?"

He shook his head. "No, no. I'm sure that the congregation won't mind. There might be some gossip, but it shouldn't be too terrible. If you'd like, we can keep you a mystery—keep it so that your back always faces everyone."

Erik pursed his lips, replying appreciatively, "I'd like that. Thank you."

"Come by tomorrow morning. I'm interested in hearing you play."

"Thank you. I will."

Smiling, he squeezed Erik's shoulder. As Erik flinched, the pastor wished, "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas." He was always uncomfortable and never sincere with offering any sort of greeting or farewell back—no matter what it was: hello, goodbye…anything, really.

Taking this as his cue to go, Erik headed down the steps, tucked his arms against his chest again, and quickly strode back on the path to his apartment complex. His mentor's house wasn't far from it, and he preferred walking to driving, so he left his car in its parking space. He glanced at the black Lancer upon passing it, checking on it before he stepped into the hall. He sighed as he waited for the elevator to come down. Sometimes, he took the stairs (since no one ever really took the stairs), but it seemed silly to do so all the time, because his apartment was literally right next to the elevator. He couldn't avoid people all the time, and everyone in this complex minded their business well enough where he could deal with a few seconds of staring. It was the insensitive, busybody questions that bothered him—the glib comments; the well-meant advice.

He did his best to limit his interaction with the outside world. For income, he made things—trinkets like jewelry boxes, music boxes, the occasional porcelain figurine (though this required seeking out a kiln), and especially wind chimes. He got most of his revenue from the wind chimes and boxes. People loved the music and the beautiful craftsmanship of the stained glass or the décor of the boxes. He had his supplies delivered to him, just as he had his groceries delivered; similarly, he used a service to come pick up his packages to be shipped. He loved the Internet simply because it made his life so much easier. Prior to it, he'd been reliant on his mentor or going out in public himself.

He sighed again as he hung his keys upon a hook next to the door. His heart ached as he dwelled upon _Christine _while removing his coat, which he hung in the nearby coat closet. He reminded himself that, as the new organist, he would have more opportunity to see her—possibly interact with her—but his feeble heart feared that tonight was a one-time blessing.

As part of his nightly ritual, he brushed his teeth then removed his wig and mask, both of which he placed upon a bust on his nightstand. In the spring and summer, he wore nothing but boxers to sleep; in the cooler weather, he bothered with pajamas, most of which were gifts from his one friend.

He went to bed with a heavy heart, dreaming that the blonde sang the solo for "O Holy Night"—only she sang it as _"Minuit, Chrétiens"_.Unfortunately, the sound was muted. He heard the organ, and he heard the choir behind her, but no sound came out of her mouth. Her ethereal image lingered in his brain even as he awoke in the morning. He couldn't get her smiling face out of his mind. It made him crave a smile from her.

Part of him wanted to pretend that she sang only for him last night, but the rational part of his brain reminded him that this was crazy—they didn't even know each other.

He planned to rectify this in the near future.

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**A/N: In what seems to be a theme for me, I started out writing this as a one-shot, but it grew to massive size, so I've chopped it up. **

**Enjoy! **

**Please review! **

**Kagome-chan **


	2. Season's Greetings

**A/N: Please note that this story has not been beta-read due to the fact that I wanted it posted around Christmas. I had time to write it but not enough time to wait around for it to be edited. Any editing has been done by me reading over it again, so please excuse any mistakes! **

**Thank you! Enjoy! **

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Chapter Two: Seasons Greetingsf

Erik arrived so early that no one else was around except for tfhe pastor from the night before. He'd planned it this way to have some peace and quiet.

The pastor greeted, "Good morning!" then remarked, "You know, I didn't catch your name last night. It slipped my mind." He extended his hand, offering, "I'm Father Norris. You are?"

He generally didn't like to shake hands, but he did appreciate the civility, which improved his taste for the procedure. He gave the man's hand a firm shake as he replied, "Erik."

"Well, Erik, it's a pleasure to meet you. I can't wait to hear your talent." He gestured at the organ. Erik needed no further bidding; he slid right onto the bench before the console and got comfortable with the settings on the instrument, testing the knobs and the pedals before he tried out a few scales. He nodded in approval of the sound to no one in particular then launched into Bach's "Sinfonia from the Organ Cantata No. 29". Upon its completion, he turned to Father Norris and found the man gaping; he smirked, pleased at this response.

"I take it that the position is mine."

The man nodded dumbly. Rather than engage in conversation, Erik turned and played some more on the organ. He had an organ at his friend's house—as well as his harp, cello, and a spare grand piano—but it wasn't nearly as magnificent as this. He delightedly played through the entire piece of Mozart's "Fantasie in F". He was about to play more after it when Father Norris turned and noted the presence of someone. He beamed and greeted, "Miss Daaé! Good morning! Where's Mrs. Valerius?"

The name sparked in his brain. His intent to keep his back turned withered to nothing, and he rotated around to seek out his new favorite person. She wore a dark green dress in the same style as the white one from before. Instead of heels, she wore flats to match, revealing that she really was quite short. He suspected that she didn't like wearing pants when she had to sing with the church choir, because it would be awkward with the robe. That, and she probably really liked dresses.

Christine laughed, admitting, "She's in the bathroom."

He couldn't explain it, but he couldn't bear the thought of actually interacting with her now that he had the chance. Before she could turn her attention to him, he rotated back around and quietly played "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," which made him smirk. For the first time, he actually felt like he was having a merry Christmas.

Christine eyed the mysterious man at the organ. Since he seemed preoccupied, she asked of Father Norris, "I take it that you've found a replacement for Elizabeth."

He beamed. "Yes, I believe so. I'll be introducing him at the service."

"Marvelous playing. It took my breath away." She smiled, hoping that the organist would hear it. Erik did indeed hear it, and it caused a smile.

Fondness dripped from every word as Father Norris guessed, "You're here early, because you want to warm up in private?"

Erik nearly stopped playing; the only thing that kept him going was the fact that it provided him with an excuse not to turn around and make eye contact.

Laughing wryly, Christine nodded. "You know me."

"I do know you. …Don't tell any of the others that I said this, but I'm quite disappointed that you didn't sing any of the solos."

Her face warmed a little as nervousness unsettled her stomach. "I'm not ready to perform solo. I'm kind-of a fperfectionist. I want to be _good _when I sing solo—you know, have some training under my belt so that I'm not all weak and intimidated by the idea of singing for everyone. When I get nervous, I get all airy, and my voice shakes in a way that's obviously not vibrato. I don't _breathe_, so it doesn't sound good."

Erik stored this information away in his memory, sure that it'd eventually have use. He kept his silence, continuing to play as he mused on how best to talk to the girl that he considered angelic. It was nerve-wracking, which was a new sensation for him. He never got _nervous _about anything. All the while, he kept an ear tuned into the discussion between the other two.

"Well, you need to get a vocal teacher soon, because I want you to perform next year. It might be the last year that I see you, depending on where you go to college."

"Hehe. Umm…" She pursed her lips. "I don't know where I want to go to college. The idea of going out to New York intimidates me. Besides, that's all the way on the other side of the _country_! …Maybe I'll go to _Uppsala_."

Father Norris raised his eyebrows. "You would go all the way to Sweden for college?"

Christine laughed, semi-self-conscious. "It seems less intimidating to me. Maybe that's just because it will remind me of my father. He was from there."

"I know. I remember him telling me. …What about France? I seem to recall hearing from a little bird that you're quite the French student. You wouldn't want to train there?"

She grinned and crinkled her nose. "Train? What do you mean 'train'?"

"Your voice, of course."

She shook her head, insisting, "I don't think I'll end up doing anything with my voice. It's more of a…hobby." She winced. She knew full well that she was far too passionate about singing for it to be labeled a _hobby_; it just didn't seem right.

Erik reminded himself to breathe and be calm so that he wouldn't lash out at her and call her stupid; that wouldn't make a great first impression. He'd just have to show her that she _had _to do something with her voice; she had to do _greatness _with it. He had yet to hear her sing, but he felt it within the depths of his soul, in his gut, in his bones, that her voice would be magnificent.

Father Norris proposed, "What will you do if you don't sing?"

"Hmm…" She grinned, offering, "Maybe I'll do something with languages—like be a translator. That way, I could travel the world. You know that I'm good at languages."

"If you ask me," he insisted, "you're wasting your God-given talent. You need to use your gift to its full potential. I feel it in my bones that you're meant to do something spectacular with it."

Christine laughed yet again. "If you say so."

She always felt strange when people spoke about her voice like it was the most amazing thing that they'd ever heard. She felt especially strange when people complimented her on it (for the few that got to really hear it), because, to her, it was such a natural part of her. Singing was like breathing: she had to do it to live. If she didn't sing, she felt as if she suffocated. Music was the biggest part of her soul and the fastest way to touch her heart.

If someone complimented her on her voice, she'd liken it to those who complimented her eyes: the only one she could truly say 'Thank you' to was God, because He gave them to her. Therefore, she felt awkward when something that was a part of her got praised, because she was just _born _with it; it wasn't an accomplishment; she did nothing to deserve the praise.

Erik realized that he had stopped playing at some point. Afraid that conversation would get directed at him, he started up "Deck the Halls". Oddly, it was the first one to pop into his head, so he went with it; he just needed _something _to fill the space.

He couldn't believe it when the girl behind him began singing to it, laughing as she went along. They went through the entire thing; he could hear the strain on her voice as she tried to sing through her laughter. He knew that she could get the F5 with no problem, but she squeaked on the second time through it because of her tenseness from the urge to giggle. By the third and fourth time, she had it down. He nodded to himself as if to say, 'Good! As it should be!' He loved her for the fact that she easily followed his ritard at the end. His ears delighted in the fact that she chose to end on a high note.

Silence filled the air. She giggled then admitted, "I can never take that carol seriously. I don't know why. It just…makes me laugh."

Erik hated himself that the first thing he said to her upon her speaking to him was "It's a pity that you couldn't sing well because of it." Afraid that she'd take offense, he offered (without turning), "Shall we perform something else? Perhaps 'O Little Town of Bethlehem'?"

Christine smiled in bemusement. "That's one of my favorites. How did you know?"

Erik smirked, murmuring to the keys before him, "It's easy to tell which carols were your favorites to sing last night. Your eyes were just a little bit brighter; your expression was just a _little _more sincere."

Embarrassed though she was at the fact that he paid close attention to her, she now desperately wanted him to turn around. "So, you came in to view the program, and that's how you found out that we needed a new organist?"

"Yes." He was getting anxious talking to her. He wanted to hide within the flow of music again, but he didn't want to be rude by truncating their conversation. He had to wait for a suitable lull in it.

Christine found herself greatly intrigued, her heart yearning to discover more about the mysterious man before her. However, she felt it'd be rude (and downright weird) if she approached him and tried to look at him from the side. "What's your name?"

"Erik." He wondered if he should ask her name but realized that the pastor had already given it. Therefore, he felt fine about saying, "And you are Christine."

The girl in question pursed her lips in a curious smile as she narrowed her eyes and demanded, "How did you know my name?"

"Father Norris said it."

"No," she refuted, "Father Norris always calls me 'Miss Daaé'." She grinned, tickled by this mystery. "So, how did you know it?"

Internally, he panicked at his slip. That was right: he _had _called her 'Miss Daaé'. He offered up truth that sounded like a lie. "I happened to overhear it on my way out of the church last night."

Christine couldn't fathom his interest. She was a very boring person. Why would anyone take any interest in her—especially remembering her name in passing? She was so flabbergasted that she commented on the first thing that popped into her head: "Erik is a very Swedish name."

"Is it?" His heart got giddy. He could tell that this was a compliment from her.

"Yes."

Here was his lull, but he no longer wanted to truncate their conversation. "Hmm. I'm afraid that I know nothing of Sweden. It's not one of the places to which I have traveled."

Instantly intrigued, Christine inquired, taking a step toward him, "Where have you traveled?"

"A great many places. All over Europe, some of Asia—including the Middle East; Pakistan and Iran, really. No Sweden, though."

Her curiosity and general affinity for people got her asking, "What was your favorite place to visit?"

The question caught him off-guard. His brain hurried to catch up and process the question. "Probably Italy, but I greatly enjoyed Russia."

A bit anxious at the fact that he still hadn't looked at her, she commented, "Aww. If you were in Russia, you weren't that far. You could have stuck it in your tour…but I guess it might have been out of your way since you were heading to Asia. It's a beautiful country, though. It's one of my favorite places to be."

He now regretted not going. "I'll have to go there sometime."

Fighting the fact that it hurt her heart so much that it upset her stomach, Christine stated, "I go there annually—to visit my father's grave. We decided before he died that it'd be best to bury him in his hometown." Unleashing a wry "Heh!" for the main intent of exhaling, she added, "He joked, 'It will get you to visit _Sverige_ more often.' …_Sverige _is the Swedish name for Sweden."

"I gathered that."

She laughed mostly to relieve the tension in her gut and heart. It didn't work. She'd have to change the subject soon to get away from the depression creeping up. She meant to, but she kept on the topic, saying, "I go during the summer—as soon as school lets out. My father's birthday is June 9th, so I visit him on it when I can. Usually, school lets out too late for it, though, so I just make up for it when I get there. …Was. Oh, my goodness! I said 'is,' didn't I? …Wow. I haven't done that in three years. Sorry."

Quite bewildered, he almost looked at her while he questioned, "Why are you apologizing?"

"…I don't know. I apologize a lot. I don't like offending or annoying people."

Since she felt awkward, she figured that now was the perfect time to change the subject. She grinned, sensing the answer to her question before she even asked it. "Are you French?"

He smiled and, again, nearly turned to look at her. "As a matter of fact, I am. Father Norris mentioned that you're a student of French?" Oh, how he wanted to look at her!

"I am. That makes it sound so prestigious, though. I'm only taking it in school. Currently, I'm in my third year of high-school French. Next year, I plan on taking AP French—Advanced Placement. I…heh…I really like French. It strikes me as a very romantic language. A friend of mine says, 'Romantic? With all that hacking? Yuck!' and I tell her that she's weird—because she is. Her mother's French, which makes her part-French, so it's weird that she doesn't like French."

Erik nodded and murmured, "Indeed."

"I guess she's been too Americanized; she grew up here, so it's all she really knows. She's a total California girl."

His urge got the better of him. He requested, "Speak to me in French. I'm curious."

Seizing the opportunity, Christine retorted, "Only if you look at me! It's a little weird talking to you like this."

He weighed his options. He liked conversing with her…and if he planned on getting close to her and convincing her that her voice was destined for greatness (though he had yet to hear it properly), he needed to earn her trust. He needed to look at her sometime. Why not now, when no one else was around? Taking a deep breath, he rotated around.

Christine's lips parted in surprise, and she blinked a bit. She hadn't been expecting a masked face. From his melodious voice, she expected someone handsome. She shivered under the weight of his dark eyes.

"I'm looking at you," he pointed out. "That was your condition."

"Yes…" she replied, getting entranced by his eyes. She distractedly said, "I don't know what to say."

He smiled, and it came so easily that it startled him. The only thing that ever made him smile was music. Trying not to freak out about it, he offered, "We could start with a proper introduction. That's even basic French. Not very intimidating." He extended his hand, saying, _"Je m'appelle __É__rik." _

Grinning hard, Christine laughed then gripped his hand. Their breaths caught in their throats; their smiles fell. Her eyes went to his hand. It was pale and cold but strangely beautiful with its elongation. Somehow, the bony fingers enchanted her; she suspected it was because she knew that they could produce such powerful music. His touch was surprisingly gentle against her skin. It felt like a hug for her hand, which caused warmth to go up her arm and across her chest to her heart. Simultaneously, it gave her goose bumps. She dragged her eyes back to his soulful ones and murmured, _"Je m'appelle Christine." _

"_Quel beau nom," _he breathed, his smile returning. It was probably the most beautiful name that he'd ever heard—especially with the French accent to it. "If I recall correctly, it means 'Follower of Christ'."

"Well, I am," she replied, laughing. She couldn't bring herself to pull her hand away. It felt like it belonged with Erik's. She began to feel uneasy about this strange sensation in her heart, so she tried to joke with more basic French. _"Comment allez-vous? _Hehe!"

Erik couldn't believe how wonderful it sounded to be asked how he was. He felt like he never heard it; he at least heard it very rarely. His heart raced as he replied, _"Ça va. Et toi?" _

She grinned hard again, and Erik fell more in love with the way that her eyes twinkled as she shyly replied, _"Moi, je vais bien." _She laughed at the fact that she almost said _"très bien," _which would have given away how happy she felt to have met this intriguing person.

Since it didn't seem particularly wise to continue holding her hand, Erik instigated their separation. Both felt chilled at the loss. Not knowing what else to do, Christine asked, reverting to English, "How long have you been in America? Your English is very good."

"Twenty years. …I'm thirty-eight."

Smiling, she offered, "It's hard to tell what age you are. Your eyes seem young, but you have this air of…wisdom about you."

He actually _grinned _as he replied, "You have an air of sweetness about you, but your eyes seem old…yet there's innocence there, too."

Mrs. Valerius announced her presence by saying, "I've always said that she's an old soul." The woman stepped closer to them from where she stood in the aisle, coming to wrap her arm around Christine. "An old, gentle soul."

Christine added, "And my father used to say, 'That's why you were in such a hurry to be born. You were ready to experience life.'" The old pang in her heart was barely there as she smiled.

"Yes. …Shall we warm up?"

She blushed. "Umm…I think, maybe, I'll just warm up with the rest of the choir."

The elderly woman scoffed. "No, you won't. Come on." She steered the girl over to the grand piano, stationing her in the curve of it while she sat on the bench. She plunked Middle C with her thumb, but Christine remained frozen, not even opening her mouth.

Father Norris offered, "If you'd like, we can leave—give you some privacy."

'_YOU can leave,' _Erik hissed in his mind, _'but I'm not about to!' _

Unfortunately, Christine grinned with such great relief that he felt obligated to leave with the man. To his great relief, they stood just outside the sanctuary, enabling him to listen to her. The two did five-note scales, starting with C major before going up: D major, E major, F major, G major, A major, B major, and C major an octave higher. They kept climbing. She was timid, but the voice was there; it just needed guidance.

Father Norris took note of the way that Erik listened intently to the girl singing and decided to wait to speak until she finished.

Erik gritted his teeth as he noticed how closed-off her sound was. Notes that should have rung beautifully were squeezed out, muffled by her undoubtedly closed mouth. True, it had to be open at least a little bit, but he could clearly picture her lips and teeth being more discernable than the blackness of an open mouth. She squeaked slightly the higher that she went, and she was only at G5. Granted, it was because of the break between her registers, but still. He made a note to himself that he'd work heavily on her passaggio.

He knew without looking that her jaw was tight; in general, she was tense; she wasn't using her diaphragm; she wasn't using any proper technique. Without the ability to hide within the choir, she was meek, which made her voice weak—and he _knew _that she had a powerful voice locked inside her. She just needed to get past her silly shyness and open up!

He groaned, _"Non!" _and touched his fingers to his masked forehead when Christine stopped at A5, not daring to go farther. That just wasn't acceptable!

Before he could stop himself, he stormed into the room. The two females at the piano gaped at him. Christine went red and apologized, trying to make it a joke, "I didn't mean to hurt your ears. Sorry."

He was about to speak when Father Norris called him back with, "Excuse me, Erik, but I need to speak with you about the service. We'll be starting in about half an hour, and I have some things that I need to discuss with you."

Huffing, Erik turned and went back to the man. He lingered long enough in the doorway to call, "Your jaw's too tight, and you're not supporting with your diaphragm!"

Utterly stunned, Christine gaped then laughed, watching the doorway until he completely disappeared. With her eyebrows raised, Mrs. Valerius questioned, "Do you want to try again?"

The singer nodded; they started at Middle C and worked their way up. She made it up to C6—the "soprano C"—but it wasn't pretty. She tended to close her mouth as she went up instead of dropping her jaw like she knew that she should. Therefore, her high notes tended to sound just plain painful.

She scoffed at herself. "I know full well that I should drop my jaw, but I just can't…_do _it! I know that I should support with my diaphragm, but…" It dawned on her. "I don't really know how."

"Like I said: we need to get you a vocal teacher."

Her eyes went to the empty doorway. "What about Erik?"

Mrs. Valerius frowned. "Who's Erik? …That masked man?" The woman shook her head. "No, no. That one's got a temper to him; I can tell. You need someone with a gentle temperament—like yourself. Plus, I don't feel comfortable with you having a male teacher—especially one that's so much older. It's not proper. No, we'll find a nice, female teacher for you to go to."

Christine didn't like confrontation; she generally didn't like to make waves. Therefore, she smiled and nodded, easily agreeing with the woman. Still, as they worked more on exercises (borrowed from her school choir), her eyes would stray to the doorway. There was something about Erik that made her curious and made her smile. She couldn't wait to see him again. Unfortunately, she didn't see him until after she returned from getting her choir robe on; by this point, people were in the sanctuary, so he kept his back turned. With a sigh, she resigned herself to the fact that she'd talk to him after the service. Situated with the rest of the choir, she listened to Father Norris start.

"Good morning. Merry Christmas. Please join me in welcoming our new organist, Mr. Erik Garnier."

The congregation applauded, though there was some whispering.

Father Norris smiled at Erik's back before turning to face the people in the pews. "Now, I'm sure you're all wondering why his back is to you. The answer to that is he feels that he'd much rather you all focus on his music instead of who he is. And who doesn't like a little mystery, hm?" Chuckles arose. For the time being, it seemed that the churchgoers could be content with this arrangement.

Using his peripheral vision, Erik glanced at the choir, who happened to be the only people who could see him from where he sat. The members of it whispered to each other. He heard Christine softly and politely tell them to please be quiet ("Father Norris is speaking!"). It made him smile. He decided to take this in a different way: she respected him and wanted to stop them from gossiping.

After the service, Erik remained where he was until he heard the room empty. Father Norris squeezed his shoulder, commending, "Phenomenal playing. Thank you so much for volunteering. I'm glad that we were finally able to come to an agreement about your salary." The man said this with a hint of a strained smile, for he and Erik had heckled about it. His love of the man's playing won out: he agreed to pay him double the ordinary amount. For instance, instead of getting a hundred dollars per hour for rehearsals, he'd get two hundred. Service fees, such as playing for funerals or weddings, would cost well over three hundred as opposed to a hundred or even two hundred and fifty per service.

Erik grinned, and his eyes gleamed. "Me, too."

Father Norris gave one last smile before leaving the room. Erik was just about to begin playing one of his own original compositions when he sensed another presence in the room. He turned and found Christine sitting front and center in the first pew closest to him. Still in her choir robes, she was reading over sheet music in her black binder. Suddenly, she sighed, complaining, "Christmas is pretty much over now. I wait all year for this!" She laughed sadly, her smile turning into a simper. "Christmas carols are some of my favorite songs. Sometimes, I end up singing them during the summer." She laughed, her eyes remaining on her sheet music, and he smiled. She sighed, lamenting, "I wish that you could sing them all year long without getting strange looks, but, at the same time, that takes away the meaning of them, and they're not as unique anymore."

Finished with bidding goodbye to her friends, Mrs. Valerius stepped back into the room to collect Christine. Her uneasiness about the two being alone together lent her speed as she strode down the aisle. "Christine, you still have to get changed."

"I thought you wanted me to sing for you?" She sheepishly admitted, "Wearing my robes helps me feel more confident."

Erik commented, "That's very psychological."

The blonde shrugged. "It helps." She smiled simply because she was usually a very upbeat person.

Since she did desperately want to hear the girl sing, Mrs. Valerius sighed but smiled, taking her seat at the piano. Christine joined her on the bench since she always felt more confident singing as she sat instead of singing while standing.

Strangely hesitant, Erik offered, "If you don't mind, I'd be happy to supply the accompaniment."

Christine lit up. She adored the idea. After her earlier carol with Erik, she craved singing with him for real. His playing was too breathtaking to pass up. She wanted to sing something substantial with him. She wanted to prove to him that she _could _sing (after the disastrous warm-up, she feared that he thought her incapable of proper singing). "That'd be lovely!"

He smiled. It was beginning to feel natural to him—smiling because of her. "What shall we perform?"

Mrs. Valerius piped up before Christine could offer something else. "'O Holy Night'."

Christine complained, "Oh, Mama Valerius, no! I don't do it justice! …I'll sing along with a track for 'O Holy Night'. How about that?"

"I don't want to hear someone else singing it; I want to hear _you _singing it!"

She refuted, "I _will _be singing it; I just get more confidence when I sing along with someone else. Besides, she has the most _beautiful _voice! Oh! It's angelic!"

Mrs. Valerius insisted, "_You're _angelic."

"No, no! I'm serious! She has the voice of an angel. Plus…she sings it in Swedish. My father loved listening to her recording. He even had the original 1987 cassette. I think she was probably his favorite soprano."

The woman smiled. "Now that I know that, I know that I won't be able to talk you out of it. Let me just say, though: _You _were always your father's favorite soprano."

In an instant, she crumbled. Erik was in awe at how quickly she went from happy to devastated—smiling to bursting into tears. Mrs. Valerius cradled her charge as she wept, sobbing her heart out. Just as she seemed to recover, another bout hit her. When she finally regrouped, she pulled back and wiped at her cheeks, appearing stoic before she smiled at her adoptive parent—who was more like a grandparent than a parent. "Sore spot," she offered, trying to laugh it off as she rubbed at her heart then simpered. Her eyes roved over the room before finally settling on the pulpit. "His funeral was held in Uppsala, but we had a memorial service here for the people who knew him here—so that they wouldn't have to travel," she quietly informed Erik with her stoic face and vacant eyes. "The funeral was more of a private event. …My mother's was in Denver. She died when I was six. He died when I was fourteen—from lung cancer."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Somehow, the fact that she was an orphan made her that much more attractive to him. He supposed it was because he had always been alone…and now she was.

She gave a weak smile then stared at the floor. "He started deteriorating around this time. He died January 22nd. I…" Her eyes stung, but she closed them to fend off the fresh wave of tears. She kept them at bay as she finished, "I sang him…to sleep." It was no good; she broke down sobbing. "And he didn't wake up." She sobbed some more then wiped at her cheeks.

Erik longed to caress her hair or her face as he soothed from his seat at the organ, "He went peacefully." She gaped at him, so he clarified, "If the last thing he heard was your voice, he went peacefully." She bowed her head, sobbing as more tears leaked from her eyes.

Mrs. Valerius was mystified. Christine had never talked about it in such great detail; she had certainly never cried in front of her. At the funeral, she was stoic; she didn't shed a single tear. She'd occasionally mention that she missed him—him and his playing—but she never broke down like this. It was as if this man had the power to make her open up her soul and purge herself of everything that she kept bottled up.

Even though she seemed to be calming down, Erik sought to comfort her by playing "O Little Town of Bethlehem". To his delight, she sang along. Her voice was a little weak from her bout of grief, but it picked up some strength. Unfortunately, due to her improper breathing, it was airy and lacked true power.

He turned toward her and stated, "Your breathing's terrible."

She simpered. "I know! I just…don't know how to breathe properly. Like, I know what I _should _be doing, but I have a problem applying it in practice."

"Hmm," he hummed, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. "When you're singing in the choir, you seem to use proper technique; when you sing by yourself, it's like you forget everything. Just now, you breathed from your chest instead of your diaphragm." He said with great thoughtfulness, "I can tell that you're a smart girl. You just have to let your brain be the boss instead of your body. It might sound strange, but singing is quite unnatural. In order to do it properly, you have to overrule a lot of your body's natural defenses—like your epiglottis. You have to keep it out of the way, but it doesn't want to be out of the way, because it's what keeps you from taking your food into your windpipe instead of your esophagus when you go to swallow."

He nearly grinned at the intent way that she watched him. It was evident that she hungered for knowledge—but especially so with singing.

"Likewise," he added, "your diaphragm helps regulate your breathing, so it doesn't like being told what to do. You have to train it."

"Uh-huh," she replied, nodding eagerly. She hoped that he would suggest being her vocal teacher, because she thought it'd be rude if _she _asked _him_. Unfortunately, he said nothing more beyond this; he merely turned and played "What Child is This?" She wilted, pouting at the abrupt termination to what could have turned into a full-fledged lesson. Her jaw dropped, and her breath stilled, when Erik began to sing. She got goose bumps from his voice. She could barely breathe. She just kept staring at him with her jaw hanging down. Mrs. Valerius was in the same position. However, when he finished, _she_ had the presence of mind to speak.

"You have a beautiful voice," she breathed.

"Thank you." He smiled wryly. "I suppose God had to give me something to make up for my face." He was afraid that one or both would inquire into this, but they remained quiet, hushed by the awe inspired by his voice. He pressed, "I'd very much like to hear you sing 'O Holy Night,' Christine." Somehow, it seemed wrong to speak her name—like he might get struck down for speaking the name of one of God's angels. Pushing past his unease, he added, "In fact, I was highly disappointed that you didn't come forward to sing it last night. That other girl was dreadful!"

Mrs. Valerius prodded, "See? Even random members of the audience felt that you should have been the one singing it!"

"Okay. I can take the hint. Let me just set up." She dug through her medium-sized tote bag, pulling out her iPod and the speakers that went with them. The tote bag was cream-colored with a red rose and French words printed upon it. She didn't normally bring the speakers everywhere she went, but today was an exception, because she planned on using them to sing for her dear friend. Before she started the track, she informed them, "The singer is Sissel Kyrkjebø. She's actually Norwegian, but she sings in other languages—one of them being Swedish. The Swedish version is called _'O Helga Natt'_. My father thought her accent was cute. Heh." She smiled fondly before adding, "I'm going to let it play once through to remind myself of the words…and because I want you guys to hear her sing first."

Erik offered, "Okay." This other singer had a beautiful voice, but he was quite impatient to hear Christine. Given that she'd be singing along to a track, she'd have more confidence, so he'd get to hear her voice at its strongest.

It was beautiful right up until the end, where Christine hit the B-flat but couldn't sustain it, forcing her to cut out on the note before finishing up the rest of the phrase.

Red in the face, Christine observed, "And that is why I didn't perform it last night."

He had no right to, but Erik insisted, "You'll perform it next year, and you'll make everyone in the room cry. You just need to get some training."

Christine opened her mouth, taking a breath in order to ask him to be her teacher (since he'd opened himself up to it, making it no longer seem rude). Right at this moment, Mrs. Valerius smiled and insisted, "Well, then, we'll just have to get you a proper teacher. In the meantime, you and I have to get going. We're meeting Meg and her mother for brunch." She brushed off Erik with, "Lovely to have met you! I look forward to hearing more of your playing."

He nodded. He wasn't too worried. He knew that she would eventually become his pupil. Until then, he'd bide his time.

* * *

**A/N: I love being a soprano. I have nothing against the other classifications, but I love high notes, so I'm really glad that I'm a soprano. When I use my chest voice, I do not sound cute. Lol. **

**((sobs)) I need a vocal teacher! I wish I could live in Colorado again so that I could get more lessons from my grandma. She was the perfect teacher for me. She's a coloratura soprano. When I was seventeen, I visited her in the summer and stayed for a week. I got ten lessons in seven days, mostly twice a day. It was the most amazing boot camp ever. Lol. Just kidding. It was a lot to take in, but I learned so much! …And I still have the tapes from that summer. Oh, yeah! **

**Unfortunately, I don't like listening to them all that much, because I hate my speaking voice, and my grandma kept asking me questions as part of her teaching method—such as "How do you open your mouth?" **

_**Is this a trick question?**_** "Umm…you drop your jaw." (Possible question mark in there, lol.) **

**Ugh. I want to punch my younger self in the face, because she sounds so…so…little girl-like! Lol. I like listening to the singing, though…sometimes…and singing along with the warm-ups that we did. **

**Enough rambling. Please review! **

**Kagome-chan **


	3. Intriguing Birthday

**A/N: Hello! Sorry for the delay. This weekend happened to be the only time that I could hang out with friends before they leave town for their respective colleges. I've stayed closer to home for mine. **

**I'll try to refrain from using too much French in this story (mostly just 'cause it's easier to stick with my native tongue). Yay, laziness! …Err, after this chapter, that is. This one has another chunk of French in it (albeit tiny). Hahaha. **

**Please note for future reference (should I decide to stick in more French) that Erik's French will be formal, because he strikes me as wanting to come across as very professional. However, he will use "Tu"/ "ton"/ "ta"/ "tes" for Christine because one generally uses the informal "you" and "your" when talking to someone younger. When my teachers spoke to me (one-on-one), they would use "tu". If they spoke to the class as a whole, it was "vous," obviously. Friends of the same age would generally use "tu" with each other. **

**Also, Erik's from France, so he will have something closer to Parisian French (as opposed to Canadian or something). **

**End French lesson! Lol. **

**Enjoy! **

* * *

fChapter Three: Intriguing Birthday

Christine was ecstatic. Her birthday was on a Sunday. Of course, this meant that, in 2009, her birthday would be on a Monday, but, this year, she could relish that it fell on a Sunday.

She'd spent the last three days thinking about Erik. His eyes still haunted her; she felt as if he were in her very soul now. He'd proven that he had knowledge on the matter of singing, but she was still curious about how he came to acquire this knowledge.

It seemed to her that he must have done a lot of learning from books—as if he were such a great student that he could learn solely from books—due to his apparent dislike for human interaction. So far, he didn't talk to anyone other than her and Father Norris. She couldn't really go off of this since this was only one day of interaction, but she could gather from the fact that he had to wear a mask that he must be introverted and antisocial with the general population. Whatever his deformity, it undoubtedly isolated him. He hadn't even wanted to turn around to look at her while they conversed—though she could understand why now. It was a wonder that he wanted to talk to her at all.

She could easily sense that there was the potential for him to be cold; it made her grateful that she'd only seen him be kind to her. She'd probably cry if he ever lost his temper or gave her the cold shoulder.

They arrived at the church early. Christine was greatly appreciative when Father Norris struck up conversation with Mama Valerius, thereby enabling her to slip off into the sanctuary, where she felt certain that she would find Erik. To her great disappointment, he wasn't there, but she did spy a gift left upon the bench before the organ console. A curious smile bloomed as she stepped toward it, set her tote bag on the bench, lifted the gift, and admired it.

The wrapping paper was silver and white and altogether quite lovely; it had blue ribbons that converged into a bow. There was a card attached, tucked under one of the strips of ribbon that clung to the box. Her name was scrawled on the envelope in rather spidery handwriting. For a long time, she just admired the neat wrapping job and the way her name looked:

_Christine _

It ensnared her heart. She set down the box to open the card. She did her best to open the envelope without tearing it, but she failed; it tore jaggedly. Huffing at her bad luck with opening envelopes, she tugged out the card. She gaped at it: it looked to be a blank card, painted over by hand. With a black border framing it, the painting depicted a stunning red rose on a cream background. The rose had a black ribbon tied in a bow on its stem, which struck her as an interesting quirk. Above the rose, black calligraphy spelled out:

_Bon Anniversaire! _

She could hardly believe the detail. It was such a simple but such a stunning painting. She kept staring at it. Her eyes strayed to her tote bag, and she realized that this must have been where Erik got his inspiration.

Her curiosity bid her to crack open the card and read it quickly. She grinned at the fact that the author chose to write his brief (yet sincere) message in a mixture of French and English. There was very little French. She guessed that he wanted to make sure that she understood, because he couldn't know how fluent she was in his native tongue. She translated in her mind as it went along.

_**Chère Christine**__, (Dear Christine)_

_**Bon anniversaire. Enchanté**__. (Happy birthday. I'm delighted—"enchanted"—to make your acquaintance.) _

_I look forward to talking to you and learning more about you. You're a very vivacious young woman with a wonderful sweetness to you. Even though I barley know you, I can tell that you have a kind heart. _

_I eagerly anticipate hearing you sing once more. (You need to lose that pesky stage fright of yours as soon as possible!) Your voice is the most beautiful thing that I've ever heard. When I heard it, my heart soared. It lifted me to the sky; it's surely what the angels must sound like. _

At this, her hand went to her heart, and she gushed, "Aww…" and grinned, getting a bit warm at the compliment. She wondered if "the sky" was actually "Heaven," because, in French, "Heaven" was _"le ciel," _which was also (literally) "the sky". Deciding that Erik was too fastidious for such an easy mistake, she came to the conclusion that he meant "the sky". Maybe he wasn't very religious. He seemed like he might harbor some bitterness about whatever lay behind his mask, which was understandable to a certain extent. She couldn't imagine being angry with God for too long. She hadn't even been very angry about Him taking her father, because she knew that his soul was at peace in Heaven.

She noted that Erik wrote very formally. After deliberating on the matter, she decided that she liked it. It meant that he liked to be professional.

There was more on the right-hand side.

_Le 28 décembre 2008_

_I entered the church on a whim, drawn in by the choir. I'm glad that I did. _

_My eyes went straight to you. I hope that you don't mind me saying this, but you're lovely – in every sense of the word: your appearance; your happy, easygoing demeanor; your resilient attitude. Just being in the same with you makes me want to be happy, and that says a lot. I'm typically not a very happy person. _

_Your sincere love of the music captured my heart. You made me love it all with you. I'm sorely disappointed that you didn't sing "O Holy Night," but, at the same time, I'm glad. Now you'll be even more stunning when you sing it next year. _

_Wishing you the greatest joy on your special day, _

_Erik_

After she spent just a little more time smiling over his thoughtfulness, deciding to take his words as platonic (and not romantic), she tucked the card back into the envelope and set it aside so that she could get around to seeing what the gift was. After all, he was much too old to be interested in her. He probably saw her as a child. She didn't even know how she thought of him; she just knew that she found him intriguing.

A bit impatient, she pulled hard and fast at the ribbons, freeing them from the box. She regained her patience in a moment as she daintily unwrapped the gift, careful not to tear the pretty paper. She wondered what the odds were of Erik guessing that two of her favorite colors were silver and blue. They had to be pretty small. She also favored black and red.

Her lips parted in surprise. It looked to be a jewelry box. Painted white and silky smooth in texture, it had a gold clasp. On the lid, her name called out in fancy, swooping lettering done in an elegant shade of pink. Clearly, it was a jewelry box—or something similar. Curious to see if he left her anything inside it, she unhooked the clasp and lifted the lid.

The interior was lined with red velvet; her eyes locked onto those of her reflection in the spotless mirror for a brief moment before surveying the box carefully in case she missed something. There were no added ornamentations, and there were no extra things in the box, but Christine found it perfect. Music tinkled from it. She smiled; it was "Silent Night". It made her feel very peaceful. She could listen to it over and over without tiring of it. It almost made her want to cry.

"I take it that you like it?"

She turned, the music still going as she responded, "I love it. It's beautiful. Thank you."

Stepping closer to her so that they wouldn't speak at a distance, he uttered, "Happy birthday. I'm sorry it's so plain; it usually takes me at least a month to make a decent jewelry box. I'm afraid, given the short notice, I used one of my templates for yours instead of creating one out of scratch. All I really did was add the covering and paint the box—and create the music box that went into it."

She smiled down at the box, closing the lid and pressing the clasp into place. It tickled her that he gave away this information when it was fairly normal for people to keep quiet about how much work went into a gift. She ran her hand over the top as she murmured, "I think that it's perfect the way it is. I like things simple…pure."

"I gathered that from how you dress and the fact that you wear no make-up."

A grin formed as she took in her new dress. Red due to the fact that it was one of her favorite colors, like many of her dresses, it had three-quarter sleeves, an empire waist, and a V-neckline since she found that this is what flattered her body type the most. Almost all of her skirts' hems went down to her knees because anything longer made her legs look stumpy. This one was no exception.

Erik remarked, "You're not wearing high heels today."

With a glance down at her black flats, Christine laughed, confessing, "I'm dreadful in heels! I have the worst balance. I only wore them on Christmas Eve because Mama Valerius gave them to me as an early present. She thinks that they're more elegant, and that I should wear prettier things, but I really am not into all that."

"I see."

They found themselves grinning at each other just because things threatened to turn awkward. Christine randomly asked, "Is there a difference between _'Bon anniverasire' _and _'Joyeux anniversaire'_?"

"They're interchangeable. It's a matter of personal taste. In my opinion, _'Joyeux anniversaire' _is a bit more intimate. Literally, it's a difference between 'Have a good birthday' and 'Happy birthday'. The latter seems to come more from the heart, though, truthfully, I'm not too familiar with it. I don't have much occasion to use either phrase."

She giggled. "I have another question: when you sing it, which lyrics do you use? Is it—" she sang _"Bon anniersaire à toi" _then added, "or is it— _'Joyeux anniversaire'_?"

He smirked even as his heart stirred at her brief singing. "Which do you think?" He was rather distracted—he kept playing the little snippets of song back in his mind. He hoped that he'd be able to recall the sound of it when his birthday rolled around in November. He didn't dare hope that she would actually sing the song for him on the specific day. That'd be too much. It'd break him.

Huffing a little that he wouldn't give her an answer, she deliberated on it. She didn't sing again, which Erik missed, when she proposed, "Hmm…well, _'Joyeux anniversaire' _is a little less awkward with the phrasing."

"That's because it's the same number of syllables as the English equivalent. That is why one typically sings that instead of the former."

He'd never sung the song for anyone, but he wanted to for Christine. At the same time, he was too nervous. Singing to her seemed so much more intimate than merely wishing her a happy birthday. It was too soon. He already regretted how forthcoming he was in her card.

In the lull that followed, Erik inquired, "Have you found a vocal teacher yet?"

Christine sighed. "I have an appointment to meet with someone on Tuesday. I start school again on the fifth, so I'll probably be seeing people for the next few days."

"I suspect that you want to get one before you start up school again?"

She nodded, pointing out, "I get busy with school, so I want to have everything sorted out while I have time off. If at all possible, I'd like to have daily lessons—with the exception of Sundays, of course—but I don't know how many teachers would do that. I'll probably just have to deal with once-a-week lessons, which is better than none.

"Ideally, I'd want lessons around four, because that gives me enough time to recuperate from coming home from school and leaves me two hours before Mama Valerius and I eat dinner." She confessed, "I typically do my homework after dinner. I'm quite the night owl."

With a smirk, Erik agreed, "As am I." It made Christine grin.

"If it were at all possible, I'd rearrange my schedule so that I'd do all my homework before dinner then have lessons _after_ since I do most of my singing at night—well, I sing all the time, but my voice sounds best at night, because it's had the chance to get really warmed up. …Sorry. I ramble a lot. "

He chuckled. "That's all right. It's not too bad. I'm actually quite entertained."

"Umm…well…as I was saying…" She grinned, laughing a bit. "Umm… Oh! Most people would probably feel weird about having nocturnal lessons, and Mama Valerius would worry about me, so it's better to have them in the afternoon. …Why do I keep using the plural? It'd only be one lesson."

Erik took this opportunity to say, "If you were training to be an opera singer, it would be plural. You'd need voice lessons, acting lessons, and tutoring in languages, to say the least."

Christine tried to remember if she'd mentioned the fact that she wanted to be an opera singer. It seemed strangely coincidental that he would use that as an example, but it also made perfect sense as a passing statement. An opera singer would require more training than someone who merely took singing lessons for the fun of it; she would also require more tutoring than someone who wanted to go on Broadway due to the added complication of foreign languages. She didn't quite know what she wanted to say when she started with, "For someone who wanted to do opera…" Thus, she sounded like this: "For someone who wanted to do opera, umm…what…what would, uhh…? I don't even know what I'm asking! Ha. Umm… I really need to think before I speak. Hang on. I had a point in here somewhere." They both laughed.

Greatly amused, he prodded, "Did it have to do with the training required?"

The blonde sighed, confessing, "I don't even know! I guess I'll just ask a question that was different than my original one. Uhh…" Her eyes widened as she complained, "Oh, my goodness! Why is my mind spacing out like this? I swear I'm not usually this…spacey!" Disgusted with herself, she cried, "Ugh! Never mind! It's early morning, so I blame my lack of functioning on the fact that I'm a night owl." A poorly-covered yawn emphasized her point. Her hand moved to her chest as she exclaimed, "Excuse me!"

"You're excused."

Her mouth cracked into a grin. "Thank you!"

"You're welcome." They chuckled.

Since he didn't particularly suffer from memory problems or any attention deficits brought on by fatigue, he got them back on track by warning, "Be careful about whom you let instruct you. They should have credentials; they should know about what they speak; they should have breadth of knowledge about music—but also some depth in the areas that you want to pursue; they should challenge you but know your limits. Not as important but still desirable, you want someone that you can get along with well, because you won't get much done if you're harboring some sort of resentment toward the person or their teaching style. If you don't like someone's teaching style, find a teacher's style that you _do _like. Don't let them abuse your voice. Of course, a good teacher knows how to protect a student's voice."

Blinking, Christine offered, "I'll try to keep all that in mind. Heh."

"Good."

Christine glanced at the delicate, silver watch on her right wrist. It was a birthday present from Meg. She knew full well that Meg got it for about ten dollars, because the other teen had seen her looking at it when they went shopping. She didn't care. She actually rather liked that the raven-haired girl spent so little on her.

Even after all this time, she felt uncomfortable with money. She surmised that it came from how she was raised. Her parents had been more middle class than upper, and they lived modestly. Her mother had been a bit more status conscience than her father, but he kept her grounded. Before she and her father moved in with the Valerius couple, they lived in a semi-cheap two-bedroom apartment—in the very same complex that the Giry women lived in now.

In a lot of ways, she missed her old apartment. It was a little cramped, but she preferred to think of it as "cozy". Sometimes, she liked the space in the large Valerius house (particularly the acoustics), but, other times, it intimidated her; it made her feel lonely. It was odd, because she didn't like being around a lot of people; she preferred peaceful solitude, where she could think, read, and sing to herself without anyone bothering her.

She still couldn't get used to the way Mama Valerius threw about her money (and, therefore, her status) or how the other kids at her private school had fancy cars, expensive gadgets, and _real _jewelry. It made her skin crawl. She looked at some of their things and wondered how many starving people it could feed. It just didn't seem fair that a select few could have such luxuries while others starved to death. She even felt guilty for her fancy, new cell phone and the high-tech computer that sat in her bedroom, but she couldn't refuse them, because they were necessary for the modern world. Plus, the phone had been a Christmas present.

Sighing at the time, she murmured, "I should go get ready for the service."

"Yes. It wouldn't do to be without your robe. You'll lack confidence."

She laughed out of shock at his light teasing. She smiled and shook her head. Without thinking, she set down her gift from him and leaned in to hug him. Erik's jaw went slack. Going off the fact that he didn't return the hug, Christine hastily pulled back and nervously tucked her hair behind her ear. "Sorry. I just wanted to thank you for the present. …Thank you. It's beautiful. I love it. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable; I just…I hug." She shrugged and laughed at herself. "I like hugs."

"Hugs are nice," he confirmed, his throat tight. "I don't often receive hugs."

"Well in that case, I really want to hug you again."

His heart thudded rapidly as he replied, "I wouldn't mind it. You just took me by surprise before."

Her warms wrapped around him in a proper hug. This time, Erik returned it. He couldn't believe how small and soft she was. He wouldn't label her frail, but she wasn't very thick. He felt that she might disappear if he hugged her too hard—like trying to hug a cloud. Meanwhile, Christine marveled at how thin Erik was; he made her feel substantial since he felt like just skin and bones. As with their handshake, they stayed this way for quite a while.

Christine laughed away the hint of discomfort she felt as they pulled apart. "I better go get ready."

"If you'd like, I can help you warm up privately before everyone gets here."

Excitement made her chest tighten. She choked out beyond her tight throat and grin, "That'd be great. Thank you."

"It'd be my pleasure. …See you in a bit."

She nodded and hurried off, doubling back to grab her bag. For safekeeping, Erik tucked the jewelry box behind his satchel, the bag on the floor next to the bench. He couldn't wait for her to return. He'd manage to slip in a few pointers, making it a little lesson so that she could get a taste of what was to come.

Moving over to the grand piano's bench, he sighed at the fact that she was going to waste their time by going through teachers. Did she not realize that it was inevitable that he would become her tutor? She had to feel it; he sensed it every time that she was in the room with him. Their meeting was the beginning of their destiny. The wheels were in motion. Their journey could begin as soon as she stopped this stupid business of looking for a vocal teacher.

There was a part of him that was grateful for it, though. If she got a taste of instruction from him then found a horrible—or even just _mediocre_—teacher, she'd practically run back into his arms.

Christine returned, flicking her hair with the back of her hands so that it wasn't stuck inside the back of her robe. Each hand tucked some of the tresses behind her ears then put her hand against her cross, checking that it wasn't crooked. Touching it also came out of her nervousness. She smiled and stood at the curve in the piano, but she was quite intimidated by Erik.

"First of all, relax. I won't bite. Close your eyes and take a deep breath. Calm down. You're not hyperventilating, but your hands are shaking. For right now, pretend that I'm not even here."

It was true: though they rested at her sides, her hands trembled. Not only that, they were rather clammy. Her legs felt weak. Her heartbeat made her sick to her stomach. She kept swallowing. "Okay." She heard Middle C and started humming it for a brief moment, her heart hammering away, her nerves making even this part of her voice shaky. Inhaling through her nose, she did her best to breathe from her diaphragm instead of her chest as she opened her mouth and sang the note on "Ah".

Erik watched her carefully as they started arpeggios. He remarked, "You close your mouth when you start going higher. Why do you do this?"

Christine opened her eyes, laughed, and supplied, "Umm…I don't know."

"You do it because you're not thinking of what you need to accomplish what you want. You need your larynx to be low; you need to drop your jaw. Also, keeping your tongue down at the bottom of your mouth helps keep it low." She nodded, absorbing this into her memory as best that she could. Interested in finding out about all the singing that she did, he inquired, "Is this choir the only one that you're in?"

Shaking her head, she admitted, "I'm in choir at my school. I started off in the beginning choir my freshman year, but then I auditioned for the advanced women's group. This is my second year in it. The music's not that much harder; it's just that our director has higher expectations for us."

"As he or she should."

"He," she said. "He's a great director. A lot of the girls don't like him because he's so strict, but I think that that's why I like him so much. He works hard, and he holds us up to a high standard. He knows how to have fun, but he doesn't like to waste time; he wants to get the best out of us."

Her eyebrows knitted together to emphasize her intent as she stated, "I know it doesn't seem like it because I'm always laughing or smiling or trying to make jokes, but I'm a pretty serious person. I'm especially serious when it comes to music. I mean, I can have fun with it, but, for the most part, I don't mess around. I work hard. I work hard, because I love it so much. I can be a perfectionist. I make recordings at home on my computer; a lot of times, I re-record songs that I think I can perform better. I'm probably my toughest critic. The silly thing about it is that I _know _that no one will hear them." She laughed because she felt uncomfortable at being so forthcoming. "Sorry. I'm not used to speaking so strongly—so straightforward…and I rambled again."

Erik smiled. "I like it. It's refreshing—and I'll let you know if I ever get annoyed with you, so stop apologizing." He craved more information; thus, he urged, "Go on."

"Umm…haha…uhh…that's me in a nutshell. Well, I guess there's more. I have horrible stage fright, which is why I probably won't do anything with my voice. I like singing in choirs, because I can hide—but it's still nerve-wracking when we have to perform, and everyone's watching us. Back when I was living in my old apartment with my dad, I'd sing my heart out at home, forgetting that my neighbors might overhear—like the walls weren't that thick, or that I'd left my bedroom window open. Hahaha. There was one instant especially where I stopped singing, and I heard my neighbor say from down below on the sidewalk, '…loud!' I gathered that they must have been talking about me. My face was on fire when I went to shut the window. I forgot to close it a lot, so my neighborhood got, ummm…_treated _to my singing. …I pity my old neighbors. Hehe! At least, now, our house has a bit more distance between it and the other houses, but I still forget about my window, and my voice probably still carries."

Erik pursed his lips. "I'm sure your singing's lovely."

"Not all the time, no. Ooh…no." Chuckling, she shook her head. "There have been times where I'm pitchy or squeaky or probably even off-key, because I tend to listen with my headphones in. Hahaha. It's not cute!" She shook her head again, grinning from ear to ear.

Chuckles bubbled from him. The imagery amused him.

She liked making Erik laugh. Thus, she commented, "My poor neighbors are probably very angry with me. I'm so addicted to singing that I'll find myself doing it past midnight—sometimes as late as two in the morning…and my place isn't soundproof. Also…I tend to try and sing opera, and I'm sure I sound horrible."

He frowned darkly, warning, "You shouldn't be attempting full-fledged opera at your age. Your cords haven't had the time to mature, but, more importantly, you haven't had the training. You need to build up to it. If you try too much at your age, you'll injure your instrument; there's a high possibility that you'll develop nodules." At her curious look, he said, "Vocal nodules are growths that develop on your vocal cords due to abuse; they can be rather like calluses. The longer the abuse continues, the harder the growths become. If it gets serious, it can require surgery; it's better to prevent it or catch it early on so that you can seek treatment—such as vocal therapy to correct your bad habits that brought them on in the first place."

He smiled at the terrified expression she gave him in return. It was comical. With great horror, she declared, her fingers around her throat, "That sounds like my worst nightmare!"

"It is definitely something that you want to avoid. …Come! Let's continue!"

He got her properly warmed up, with some reminders to drop her jaw and breathe from her diaphragm, but then they just stood around. Christine waited patiently while Erik deliberated on whether or not they had time to sight-read a song. Evidently, they did not, because people came into the room. He hastened to his seat at the console. Christine sighed, missing their interaction yet thrilled at the little bit of a lesson that she did get.

Erik adored how Christine waited around until everyone left. It afforded him the chance to hand her back the jewelry box. She smiled down at it, thanked him again, and gave him a one-armed hug. He gave her one with both arms, doing his best to adapt to giving and receiving hugs. He planned on exchanging many with her, and he wanted them to be comfortable instead of awkward, so he needed practice.

"Happy birthday," he repeated as she adjusted her bag so that it sat better on her left shoulder. She seemed to favor her left side, because her left hand held the jewelry box. He smirked and added, _"Joyeux anniversaire." _

She giggled but replied, "Thank you. I'm having a very good one today."

He ventured out on a limb to ask, "What are your plans for the rest of it?"

"Hmm…" A smile broke out. "Well, later on in the evening, I'll be getting together with friends for a party. We'll probably order pizza and watch movies at my place. Of course, there will be cake and presents."

He vaguely knew of these traditions only because his mentor insisted upon them ever since they arrived in America. "That sounds like fun. I wish you the best."

Grinning, she uttered, "The best thing about having a birthday so close to Christmas: I get Christmas decorations for my party—including our tree! Hee hee!"

She made him smile yet again. "That must be nice."

"Yeah, it is." She suddenly blurted, "I know this is gonna sound random, but I swear it ties in! I…get embarrassed when I have to sing 'Happy Birthday' for people, because everybody knows that I'm a singer, so I get really pissed at myself if it doesn't sound good. Is that weird?"

Smirking, he quipped, "Not if you're a perfectionist, no." He delighted in the fact that this made her laugh. He could become addicted to her smiles and her laughter. They made him feel normal.

"I get embarrassed really easily, actually. I have no shame when it comes to singing. Aside from leaving my bedroom window open and singing all over the house—usually at great volume, I like to listen to my iPod everywhere I go, and I have a hard time listening without singing—unless I'm listening to my classical playlist."

'_She has a classical playlist. She likes classical and opera. …Breathe. Smile. Look normal.' _

"Anyway," she continued, "my point being: I'll be walking down the street, and I'll be singing away for the world to hear. But when people pass me by, or I pass them, I get really warm in the face and stop…until I'm only a couple of feet away from them or until they're far enough ahead of me. I also sing in the car—our driver, Meg's mom's car, anyone's car, really. Actually, I don't sing as much in the car, because my voice tends to be weak depending on the day and usually because of how I'm sitting."

She rapidly added, "I don't drive. My eyesight's really bad, and I'm just horribly unobservant, so it's better if I'm not on the roads. Plus, L.A. is so congested that it's just easier not to drive. I'm actually glad that I don't have to take the public transportation; if I had to take a bus, I'd go flying, because the driver would take off without me being seated, and my poor balance would screw me over. …I'm rambling again. Sorry."

He smiled yet again, greatly fond of her. "That's all right. It's very entertaining how you hop from one point to another. Like I said before: I'll let you know if I get annoyed, so stop apologizing. If you keep saying it, I might just get annoyed." She offered up a cute little pout then smiled. Though they weren't particularly harsh, he softened his words by prodding, "You listen to classical and opera?"

She grinned and brought her hand up to her mouth then placed it on her heart. "Umm…yeah. Hahaha…I'm a really big dork about it." She fiddled with her cross between her fingers out of habit as she said, "Like, I get _so _excited over arias that I feel ridiculous."

Only mildly distracted by her fingers' movement, he wondered, "What are some of your favorites?"

Her grin turned less self-conscious and more neutral. Her fingers stilled but continued to rest against the cross. "Hmm…let's see. I love _Faust _in general, so I _love _Marguerite's aria _'Que de Bijoux,' _and I adore the trio at the end." She began fiddling again. "I love _'Anges Pures, Anges Radieux' _so much it's ridiculous. That's one of the ones where I've done a lot of singing where I know now that I shouldn't. Oh, but I love it! Likewise, I like _'Sempre Libera' _from **_La Traviata_**—and the drinking song. I like _'Je Veux Vivre' _from **_Roméo et Juliette_**. I like the 'Bell Song' from _**Lakmé**. _—What are the actual titles it goes by?"

He immediately offered, _"'Air des Clochettes' et 'Où Va la Jeune Hindoue?'." _

"Ah, yes. That's what I thought. At first, I thought, 'Wow. This is so pretty,' but then I read up on **_Lakmé_**, and the context is so sad!" She gave another little pout then smiled.

Erik was beginning to think that she couldn't possibly be real. He had to be dreaming or hallucinating or something. She was too perfect. Granted, she could be rather silly, and there was the barrier of their age, but, in a few years, it wouldn't matter. She'd mature; she'd be over eighteen; everything would be perfect.

"Random question, I know, but what instruments do you play?"

He dragged his attention back to her, processed her question, and answered, "Violin, piano, organ, harp, cello, guitar, and flute. I dabbled in clarinet, various saxophones, and some trumpet, but I don't like the pressure it adds to my face for the _embouchure_. I prefer string instruments, mostly." He gave a bemused smile at the way that Christine gaped at him. "I'll wait until you collect yourself. I understand that seven instruments is a lot to have mastered. I suppose it's eight if you count my voice. Music is really all I have, though, so it's how I keep busy."

She nodded dumbly then started shaking her head. She couldn't find her voice. She heard everything that he said, but one thing stuck out and echoed over and over in her mind: _violin_. Her heart threatened to scream.

With a tilt of his head, he questioned, "Are you even breathing?"

She laughed and shook her head more, which then led to her gasping in air. It was too perfect—so perfect that she began to cry. It was just a few tears with no sobbing before she set to pressing her hand against her mouth and staring at her feet. Her hand slid to her chest; her fingers wrapped around her cross—a gift from her father.

Her father's words about sending her the Angel of Music rang inside her heart and mind; he'd probably meant it as a joke, and she hadn't taken him seriously, but what if Erik were the Angel of Music? How could he not be with all those instruments under his belt? And the way he _played_! It was breathtaking. She didn't think she'd be able to handle it if she ever heard him play the violin. It'd steal her soul. She'd be bound to him forever. She already felt a horribly strong bond between them.

With this in mind, she lifted her head and declared, "You can't ever play the violin for me."

Blindsided, his head spun as he questioned, "I'm sorry?"

"You can't ever play the violin for me. I won't be able to withstand it."

Still reeling, he wondered, "Why?"

She shook her head. She couldn't bear to tell him. "Just keep that in mind."

"All right," he uneasily conceded.

"I have to go. Thank you again. I'll see you Wednesday evening."

He quickly leaped upon it. "Yes. You'll have to tell me how your lesson goes."

This got her smiling. "I will. …I'm super excited for it. I want it to be Tuesday and Wednesday already so that I can have my lesson and tell you about it."

He let slip, "So do I."

Rather than read into it like he feared she might, Christine merely smiled in pleasant surprise before fondly offering, "Bye, Erik. See you Wednesday."

His heart skipped a beat, for this was the first time that she had ever spoken his name. Luckily, he kept his composure. _"À mercredi." _

She grinned and echoed, _"À mercredi." _Her face contorted as she noted, "Wait! I was the one to say 'See you Wednesday' in the first place! Why did I repeat myself?"

"I don't know, but I don't mind. Your French amuses me." _It's adorable. _

A bit self-conscious (and always a perfectionist), she wondered, "Is it bad?"

"No, not at all! It's very good, but there is still a hint of an American accent to it."

"Ah, darn!" She snapped her fingers, smiling ruefully. "I guess it's fair. I mean, you've got 'a hint of an accent' to your English, and you've been here for twenty years, so…yeah." Shaking her head, she cried, "I gotta go! Bye!" He gasped a little when she randomly hugged him, the jewelry box at his back, then rushed off, waving at the doorway before she disappeared. He was so shocked that he neglected to wave back.

For the rest of the night, Erik would try to imagine the reasons why Christine wouldn't want him to play the violin for her. He paced his apartment as he thought on the matter. He couldn't fathom it.

'_She said she wouldn't be able to withstand it, but maybe that was her way of trying to be polite. Maybe she hates the violin. …That's ridiculous! No one could ever hate the violin; it's too beautiful an instrument.' _

He made up his mind that he would dig deeper into it on Wednesday then went into his office to play his keyboard with his sturdy, black headphones covering his ears.

Meanwhile, in her room, Christine pulled out her father's violin case from under the bed. With her heart racing, she undid the clasps and cracked open the lid. It still smelled like him. Of course, she generally associated the smell of a violin and rosin with her father, but there was that little extra.

Taking a deep breath, she ventured to lift it from its resting place; she treated it like it was made of glass. Her eyes roved over every inch of it before she replaced it in the case, only to grab the bow and slide the rosin along it. Her heart pounded with excitement. Today, as a birthday present to herself, because she knew that her father would want her to, and because her conversation with Erik sparked it, she played a little on the instrument. She started with an A major scale out of nostalgia; it'd been the first scale that he'd taught her. After playing through some more, she amused herself by playing "Twinkle Twinkle"—the very first song she'd learned.

Even after three years of not playing, she had ten years of lessons from her father under her belt. She dug into her memory banks and managed to pull out a shaky rendition of one of his compositions—the waltz that he'd written for her when she was in the NICU as a preemie.

She'd been born four months early, weighing only one pound and six ounces. Apparently, she'd been born with Strep B in her lungs, which scarred them a bit. The respirator nearly shredded them, and the high level of oxygen didn't help her poor retinas.

Aside from having open-heart surgery as a newborn, she soon had to have cryosurgery to save her eyesight from Retinopathy of Prematurity, which had caused her retinas to begin to detach. This left her legally blind in her left eye and with some usable vision in her right eye; the surgery also ended up reducing her peripheral vision greatly. She couldn't read out of her left eye, so she was dependent on her right eye for most of her visual needs. Her left eye seemed just like extra peripheral vision for her right. It was why she didn't drive. It was also why she felt certain that she wouldn't do well on the stage.

For a moment, thoughts of when she performed as a Bon-Bon in _The Nutcracker _when she was nine flitted through her mind. Distracted, she paused in her playing before picking back up.

She'd had a very hard time finding her mark on the stage and had to rely on following the crowd. There was one night where she filled in as an understudy and went to the wrong spot since she was the first one in their row. She spent the entire dance there, smiling like an idiot as she stood out of alignment with the other little girls. She stood _in front of them_, so it was horribly was an awful dancer—too stiff and not enough grace. It embarrassed her to remember, so she mostly tried not to. This was why she liked performing in choir; it wasn't as hard to locate where to be—she just had to follow her row.

If she did end up performing on stage, in opera, she'd need to _really _familiarize herself with the stage. So, with her stage fright and her poor vision, it just didn't seem realistic that she would ever reach her dream.

She liked to blame her flaw of being horribly unobservant on her poor eyesight. She'd worn glasses her whole life until she turned fifteen, which was when she changed to contacts. With contacts, people couldn't tell that she had vision problems. Also, they were more comfortable; she liked that they followed her eyes.

Her biggest problem with her glasses was that her narrow frames were always in her field of vision, and it was all too easy to look beyond them and see the world uncorrected—indistinct. The other reason that she hated her glasses was that they made her look as dorky as she felt. In spite of her semi-attractive, slender frames, she still didn't like the way that she looked.

Her lenses were ridiculously thick, which made the thinner frames ideal; the woman at the optometrist's had even complimented her on her choice in her most recent trip to the eye doctor.

Meg had once tried on her glasses and suffered for it. ("Whoa! These give me a headache! You're blind as a bat, Chris!")

In short, she loved her contacts (except when they acted up on her, not wanting to go in or just plain irritating her eyes). Wearing her glasses made her feel younger, because she'd always worn glasses. It made her feel like she was in junior high again, and she wanted to graduate to a more mature look.

She got lost in the flow of the music as best as she could, but the heartfelt waltz got her thinking about her past.

Due to her prematurity, she had to stay in the NICU for months. This meant that her parents got an extended vacation in Sweden. When she was stabilized, they went back to Denver from Uppsala. She was on oxygen until she was nearly two because of the altitude. Almost all of her baby pictures featured her with a nasal cannula.

After her mother's death at the age of six, they moved out to California—mainly because her father thought that he might have luck scoring a record deal in L.A. He didn't. He died mostly unknown, popular only in the Scandinavian regions.

She still had residual airway issues—mostly just a reactive airway that got her coughing semi-lightly from time to time. It was frustrating, because it made singing harder. She blamed her horrible breathing for singing on her airway issues. Of course, living in L.A. wasn't particularly good for her lungs, what with all the smog and general pollution.

Her parents had called her a miracle baby, because so much could have gone wrong. Even just remembering this made her uncomfortable. For some reason, she was reticent when it came to telling people about her history. Everyone was always amazed by it. It got tiring. She was a normal girl who happened to have survived great odds. She wasn't ungrateful about it; in fact, much of her time praying was spent thanking God for all the good things in her life.

She didn't want Erik to know about her medical history, and she didn't know why. She guessed that it was because of his card. His card made her think that he'd treat her differently if he knew. When she mentioned to people that she'd had open-heart surgery, they'd get concerned about the current condition of her heart. She then had to explain that it had been a corrective surgery to close a small valve that was supposed to close on its own. It left her with no abnormalities; she was _fine _(as far as she knew). This was why she preferred not mentioning anything about her birth. It annoyed her that Mama Valerius loved telling the story—like the woman was proud of her survival in a maternal sense even though she hadn't been there. She chose her listeners carefully, but Christine still found it unnecessary to tell anyone about it.

She knew that Erik would be one of these people who worried about her current health, which was the main reason that she didn't want to tell him.

She also didn't want to admit that her eyesight was so poor. She didn't like admitting her weaknesses. She preferred insisting that she was absolutely normal…as far as physical aspects went. She knew that she wasn't entirely normal. She liked to joke that she was a freak. Personality-wise, she was studious, dorky, and horribly naïve. Gullible and too trusting, she took people at their word and often missed out on subtle jokes. Her randomness tended to bewilder people, but it also made them laugh.

When faced with people less talkative than she (such as Erik), she talked to fill the void—usually talking too much. Meg was talkative, so Christine put her skills as a compassionate listener to good use. She could be quiet when it counted, and there were many, many times where she preferred not talking. She really only talked when she had something to say; and when she had something to say, there was usually a lot on the matter that she felt needed to be said.

She considered herself boring and annoying, but she liked to believe that she had enough good points to counter this. For instance, despite her terrible memory, she tended to be very thoughtful—very considerate of others (with the exception of singing at two in the morning). She was always ready to listen. Often, she was too accommodating and would become a captive audience, bound by her politeness. It was at these times where she'd try to subtly change the subject or sweetly say that she had to be somewhere while wishing the person a wonderful day. She sincerely hoped that Erik didn't do that with her. She couldn't blame him if he did. She came to the conclusion that, between the two of them, one of them had to instigate conversation, and he didn't seem to be much of a talker, so that left it up to her. She'd just have to be careful not to ramble as much (because that was annoying—even if Erik was too nice to admit it).

Christine huffed. She had tried so hard to play again, but she couldn't even finish the song. Her arms felt heavy, so she lowered everything. It was at this point that she burst into tears and had to put the instrument away. It hurt to play; therefore, she locked it up again and tucked it back under the bed. She doubted that she would try to play again. She probably never would.

* * *

**A/N: I chose L.A. because it is a place where a lot of culture can take place (music, movies, plays, even an opera house). **

**I almost set this in Denver, but I decided that one story set in Denver was enough—even though I didn't particularly use my setting to its fullest in that story. (By the way, I'll have a short story coming out that's set in Denver. Lol.) **

**I was going to be vague about the setting, but I decided that it'd be weird to mention countries and living in the U.S. without tossing in a region. "I live in Non-Existent Town, but it's somewhere in America!" Lol. Since I plan on mentioning real places even more, I just couldn't stand the setting being vague. I probably should have looked up a real church to use, but I didn't think of that when I started, and now it's too late, so meh! It doesn't particularly matter. **

**: P **

**Happy birthday to me and my KH beta **_**Illyric**_**. Lol. **

**Please review! **

**Kagome-chan **


	4. Securing a Vocal Instructor

Chapter Four: Securing a Vocal Instructor

Christine finished brushing her hair and double-checked that she looked decent. She'd gone for casual with dark jeans and her soft, black choir t-shirt, on the front of which was the name of her former high school followed by "Chorale Department" done in white writing. It was from her freshman year in high school—before Mama Valerius moved her to a private school. Christine had been in public schools her whole life, so the change was odd, but she got used to it.

The public school had had funds cut, so the shirts were cheaper. She liked that the high collar emphasized her hair, but, at the same time, wasn't too tight as to make her look choked or make her neck look shorter. She mainly wore the shirt because it demonstrated her involvement in singing, but it also happened to be very comfortable.

Under the shirt, she wore her cross, but over it she wore a birthday present from her friend (and former boyfriend) Raoul: a silver necklace adorned with a lopsided heart inscribed with the word "Love" and a treble clef studded with fake diamonds. It satisfied the romantic in her as well as hinted at her great love for music.

Since her possible instructor got off work at five, she agreed to have the lesson around this time. They would finish most likely just in time for her to eat dinner.

It was quarter past already, so the woman would arrive soon. Christine flitted around the living room, making certain that everything looked nice before she hurried into the kitchen to check on the tea kettle. She'd read online that warm tea—especially with honey—was good for the vocal cords, so she decided that she'd help them relax with it before and during her lesson. The knock on the door came just as she poured water into her mug. Since it needed to steep anyway, this was fine. She went to answer the door.

"Have you seen this girl?"

She laughed at the fact that the thicker-set, fair-skinned brunette held up a batch of their e-mails printed out and stapled together; on the front was the e-mail that stated her address and had a photo of her. The woman had shown her a picture of herself first, which led to Christine sending one. It certainly helped with recognition of each other.

Since they'd been e-mailing for the last few days, she felt close enough to immediately hug the woman. The only calling they'd done so far was on this day to verify the lesson.

Christine immediately offered, "Would you like some tea?"

"Sure. What kind is it?"

"I don't remember off-hand. We'll go look." Upon looking at the box in the pantry, she read, "'Mango Passonfruit Herbal Tea'."

The other female wondered, "Does it have caffeine?"

Christine looked again. "It says, 'Caffeine-Free'."

"Good, because caffeine will dry out your vocal cords."

The blonde's eyebrows rose. "Really?"

"Mm-hm. Plus, it's not good to have _too _much tea. Also, you don't want your tea too hot, because that will swell the vocal cords. Really, your best bet before rehearsal or a lesson is water."

Christine nodded then smiled. She really liked this woman. Her brown eyes were pretty, and she exuded kindness. If she couldn't have Erik as her teacher, she'd certainly like her.

Recognizing the packaging, her guest realized, "I have this same kind at home!"

"Weird! I love coincidences like that." It was this sort of thing that made her think that maybe she and this woman were meant to work together.

Christine handed off the mug that had already had its chance to steep, starting a new one for herself. After she checked her watch to make sure of how much time she needed to let it sit, they went out and sat on the couch. Her newfound (possible) teacher asked permission to set her things on the coffee table. She had some paperwork for her to look at. As she knew from the e-mails with her, the woman had started her company in 2005; it was called _Bel Canto_. The name alone made Christine like her.

Her name was Stephanie. She was only thirty-three, but Christine was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. She knew that age didn't necessarily have to do with talent or skill. Still, there were a few things that gave her misgivings.

In their e-mails, Stephanie divulged that she was "a solid alto/ mezzo-soprano". Christine had nothing against the other classifications, but Stephanie kept emphasizing that she'd like to challenge her by working on her lower range—in spite of Christine stating that she wanted to work primarily on her upper range. Stephanie insisted that they would work on all of it, but Christine feared that she'd only work on her lower range—of which she had little. She was quite certain that it wasn't possible for her to go lower than her current lowest note (the G below Middle C if she were _really _lucky).

Mama Valerius wasn't around (she'd gone out with friends), but when she mentioned this to her the night before, her guardian said, "It will be good to work on your weak area, right?" In that light, it seemed okay, but she still had misgivings.

Stephanie also mentioned that she'd be "willing to make house calls every other week". This greatly disappointed her, adding another thing to the cons side.

Through e-mail, Stephanie asked if she had a CD player or computer that she could use since she wasn't strong on the piano, and she had a CD for warm-ups that they would use. She asked again in person. Pushing aside her worries, Christine told her that she did. In fact, she had it right in the living room, on the coffee table. It just needed to be plugged in. The piano was situated on the other side of the room, in the corner, by the fireplace, near the window overlooking the backyard. It was a beautiful, black grand. Both she and Mama Valerius played it. In fact, her guardian was her piano teacher.

The living room was adjacent to the breakfast nook (which was connected with the kitchen); the breakfast nook had the sliding glass doors that led out to the patio. In general, her household was open in a pleasant way and full of light.

Aside from this matter about the piano, Christine sent links to some of her favorite songs—such as arias from operas—so that they could get to know each other's musical tastes better. The woman hadn't gotten around to listening to them, but she had at least read the portions Christine wrote concerning the ideas of what the teen could sing during the lesson. Christine recommended that she could sing "anything from Disney" and offered up "My White Knight" from _The Music Man_ as well. She also pressed two of the Italian songs that she'd discovered through YouTube: _"O del mio amato ben" _and _"Alma del Core"_. It was at this point that Stephanie mentioned that she wasn't strong at the piano. Therefore, she wouldn't be able to accompany her. Christine had replied that that was okay—that she was probably at the same skill level as she.

The blonde considered herself mediocre at the piano, which she had only been learning for three years. Sometimes, she didn't even like it; it paled in comparison to how she loved to sing…or how much she loved the violin. If it didn't hurt so much, she'd still play the violin.

Her biggest issue so far with the current arrangement was the song that Stephanie planned to have her sing. She had a track for it on CD. She'd sent her a link to the song, asking her to be familiar with it. It was "I'm Not That Girl" from _Wicked_. She didn't know much about the musicalother than it was based off a book, which was based off _The Wizard of Oz _(which was also a book). She loved _The Wizard of Oz_, so she figured that she'd like _Wicked_.Also, her friend Meg loved _Wicked_, so she decided that she'd at least give it a shot.

She'd heard a couple of songs from it—"Popular" and "Loathing"—or was it called "What is This Feeling?" She couldn't keep it straight. She liked those songs, which was what made her think that she'd enjoy this one that Stephanie recommended.

When she heard it the first time (an hour prior to Stephanie's arrival), she had to force herself to sit through it. It wasn't terrible; it just didn't spark her interest. She told herself that it might grow on her, so she should give it a chance. Everything was fine for most of it. There were a couple of times where it dipped down a little low, but she considered it in her range…until the end—the eponymous final line. When she heard it, she thought, _'Wow. That gets really low.' _She then tried to sing it and almost died laughing. "Oh, no! This is so not happening! I sound like a dying beast! Hahaha!" She mused to herself, "I guess I could go an octave higher or repeat the note, but still…" She practically sobbed with laughter at how the song didn't fit her voice. She tried again and bemoaned, "Ugh! I sound tone deaf!" She tried the low note then giggled—doing this multiple times. She quite amused herself with it.

Currently, she smiled and listened attentively as Stephanie gave her a letter talking about her experiences. She didn't really read the letter, because Stephanie said that it mainly said a lot what she'd already mentioned in e-mails. Some of the things that she mentioned were: she sang for church choirs; she'd done musicals in elementary school; she'd been in an auditioned ensemble when she was a senior in high school then continued choir in college; she'd done back-up vocals on some friends' CDs. She'd also sung for weddings, coffeehouse gigs, and college banquets.

All in all, Christine wasn't entirely impressed, but she adored the woman. The likeability factor made her want to forget that she was supposed to be looking for someone with "credentials". She didn't know what Erik's credentials were, if he had any, but she knew that his skill was phenomenal. She'd had one mini-lesson with him, and she felt stronger. If Mama Valerius weren't so insistent on her getting a different teacher, she'd already have done her best to get Erik to take her on as a student.

On the back of Stephanie's letter, there was a listing of things that a singer should do to protect their voice. "This is especially true for professional performers," Stephanie emphasized. Christine knew all of it already, but she didn't mind the review. It was basic stuff—drinking plenty of water, avoiding dairy products before singing, getting enough sleep, etc. The only thing she didn't do was sleep with an air humidifier (which wasn't on the list but got a mention from Stephanie in the midst of going over it). The phrasing was fun, and she decided that she'd keep the list no matter what, because she liked that one of the things said "SMILE! Smiling not only helps with tone placement of the singing voice, it also improves your attitude! Try it! It really works. It's infectious, too!"

"Now, here is the important page—an agreement that I'll need you to sign if you decide to hire me. I'll need a parent or legal guardian to sign it since you're underage, so I'll leave all this here, and we'll deal with it next time."

"Okay."

She pulled out a small journal. The hardcover featured images of roses, sheet music on parchment, and a violin. Gasping with delight, Christine immediately fell in love with it. She hadn't said a word about any favorite things, but the brunette had gotten her this. Maybe it was a sign that they were supposed to work together!

Stephanie told her that she could use it to take notes since they didn't have a tape recorder. "For right now, let's go warm up with the piano."

The journal won her over. Leaving it on the coffee table for the time being, she spaced out on her misgivings…until Stephanie sat at the piano with her small whiteboard nearby, hit a note, then said, "Oops. That's not Middle C." Christine's eyes widened in horror, but she quickly relaxed them and smiled when Stephanie turned to her with a smile. Internally, she freaked out. How could a music teacher not know where Middle C was? Wasn't that basic?

She told herself not to be so judgmental, but her rational side pointed out that she should get a teacher who was strong in music. She really wanted to feel good about Stephanie, though, because she felt like they were friends already. She was _such _a nice woman that it broke Christine's heart that things were a bit uncertain at this point.

They weren't even doing anything, and she was trembling. She tried her best not to let it show. In order to calm down, she recalled Erik's soothing voice as he told her to just _breathe_. It made her smile. It helped calm her, but it didn't last: as soon as Stephanie spoke again, her heart rate picked back up, and she felt shaky throughout her whole body.

"Okay. Let's start with a succession of sounds." She lifted her whiteboard and wrote on it:

_Me _

_May _

_Ma_

_Mo_

_Moo_

Christine squirmed on the inside. Thanks to her high school choir director, she was used to:

_Mi _

_Meh_

_Ma_

_Mo _

_Moo_

It was such a tiny, insignificant thing, but it still grated on her. "May" could get nasally, whereas "Meh" left things open. Nonetheless, she followed the woman's instruction, scolding herself for being so picky. She had no right to judge: she wasn't a music teacher; she had only ever been in choir. She knew nothing about singing, really.

They'd do it on whole notes, half notes, quarter notes, and eighth notes. Before they started, Christine requested, "Hang on. Let me get my tea." They'd left their mugs on the coffee table. With her mug in hand, both of which shook some more, she sipped a fair amount with trembling lips then stated, "Okay. I'm ready." She grinned. Her heart wouldn't calm down.

They went through each style before Stephanie commented, "You have a nice vibrato, but try to sing without it. You don't want to rely on your vibrato to find the pitch."

Christine replied, "Okay," but in her mind she went, _'Wait! What? That doesn't make any sense!' _She decided to just go with it; she thought that maybe she didn't know as much as she thought she did. After all, she only sang in choir and was otherwise self-taught. Thus, she tried to sing with a straight tone, doing her best to have absolutely no vibrato. It was like pulling teeth. "Ah, it's too hard."

"That's because you're used to using your vibrato, which is actually a bit heavy."

'_Vibrato's healthy, isn't it? Hey, wait! My vibrato isn't too heavy! …Maybe it is, though. I wonder what Erik would think of her.' _

The thought nearly made her giggle; she managed to keep her amusement down to a little smile.

Oblivious to Christine, or perhaps ignoring the oddity of the random smile, Stephanie added, "In a lot of styles, you don't want to have too much vibrato. As a singer, you want to be able to adapt; you want to be versatile."

'_Okay, but I don't care about other styles. I'm not about to go perform in coffeehouses, singing jazz or country or even pop.' _Aloud, she said, "Mm-hm. …I understand what you mean. I know that it's good to be versatile. I know how to modify my voice for different styles. I don't sing with very much vibrato when I'm singing pop or anything; I just figured it'd be good to do with warm-ups."

"Well, let's keep going without it."

Feeling naïve, she opted to just keep on going with this. Unfortunately, her vibrato wouldn't die, which was weird, because she knew that she was capable of singing without it. "Ah. I can't do it."

"That's all right. You can work on it. For now, why don't we move over to the CD?"

Christine helped the woman operate her small CD player. She double-checked that it was plugged in before popping open the top for her. The CD had one of the exercises that they'd just done: 1, 5, 3, 8, 5, 3, 1. They tried different syllables: _Nay, No, _and _Koo_. The purpose of this was to feel how the voice changed with the syllables._ Koo _was the easiest.

Stephanie started them on the tenor section. When it came time for the soprano section, Christine found herself horrified that her instructor had to tell her to drop her jaw. _'Ugh! I know all this!' _Not only this, she was a little pitchy. She felt humiliated that they had to stop. She didn't know how high they went, but she'd wager it wasn't much beyond A5. Her sounds had not been cute. Her nerves were getting the better of her yet again.

"Let's do some breathing exercises." They sat back down at the couch while Stephanie showed her a picture of the anatomy of the throat and the airways, which included the diaphragm. "You mentioned that you're in choir. Do you know what the diaphragm does?"

"It helps regulate your airflow."

"How does the muscle move? What happens when you breathe in?"

She easily responded, "The diaphragm contracts; your stomach expands."

Stephanie beamed. "I knew you were smart. I could tell from your e-mails. Now, we're going to breathe in for eight and exhale for eight."

'_I feel like I'm not learning anything new. …Maybe it will just take awhile before we get to the other stuff. We have to start at the beginning.' _

She breathed in as she was told, bending over with her head down, her hand on her stomach to feel her diaphragm, her elbows on her thighs. She found it hard to breathe in this position. It baffled her that she was supposed to do breathing exercises in this position. Weren't her organs compacting against each other? How could anything expand properly? She knew from trying to sing in the car that sitting hunched was _horrible _for singing. She got out of breath quicker than usual in the car, strapped into the seat as she was.

"We're going to see how many counts you can exhale for after breathing in."

She did her best to breathe in right as Stephanie instructed, but she messed up by not taking a deep enough breath.

"Okay. Try again."

At the end of her exhalation, Stephanie informed her that she'd gone for fifteen counts. Sitting up, Christine beamed, impressed that her lungs weren't as weak as she thought—that breathing from the diaphragm really helped that much.

"Now, I want us to try and sing along to the track I brought. I have the lyrics right here. We'll sing together."

Though she dreaded having to sing the song since she'd only heard it a scant amount of times before the lesson, Christine nodded. She wished that she had sheet music to follow. Granted, her sight-reading was atrocious, but it was still better than trying to do it from memory, having learned the song by ear.

"The next one," Stephanie said of the intro. "A few more counts."

She'd listened well enough to the song to know this, but she said nothing and just nodded.

Soon, they began to sing. Christine had to admit that Stephanie had a beautiful voice. Despite how little exposure to the song she'd had, Christine held her own, occasionally going off-pitch but mostly sticking with it. At the end, when she could actually hit the note, though it still wasn't the best, she came to the conclusion that Stephanie had sung it in a different key.

"You have a nice sound to your chest voice."

It was a great struggle not to raise her eyebrows. Was she serious? She smiled instead of speaking. She didn't want to remind the woman that her comfort zone was on the other end of the spectrum.

Taking note of her necklace, Stephanie wondered, "Is that a heart with a treble clef?"

Christine touched the pendant with the treble clef hanging over the front of the heart, smiling as she replied, "It is."

"I have that _same _necklace. My mother loved it so much that she borrowed it from me and never gave it back!"

"Haha. Maybe you can just buy another one."

She conceded, "I guess I'll have to. …It's so funny that we have all these little things in common."

"Yeah! Hehe!"

Locking eyes with her potential student, the brunette said, "I know that you want to work on your upper range, but I really think that it'll be good to challenge you with working on your lower range. We're really going to work on your confidence."

That niggling sensation in her stomach wouldn't go away, but she nodded.

Stephanie looked at the coffee table, sorting through things in her mind. "Okay. We're about done, but, before we go, I'd like you to sing something that you're proud of—anything you want." She beamed, and Christine felt guilty for how judgmental she was being. This woman was so very nice. Maybe she was just blowing things out of proportion.

Christine quite gratefully jumped at the chance to sing something in her comfort range. She perused her collection of DVDs that lined the shelves in her entertainment center. She stated, "Julie Andrews is one of my idols, so I'm torn between _The Sound of Music _and _My Fair Lady_. I know that the film version has Audrey Hepburn, with the voice of Marni Nixon, but Julie Andrews originally sang the role of Eliza, which is what got me thinking of it." _You're rambling again. _"I'll do _My Fair Lady_." She plucked it from the shelf and set to getting it going in her DVD player, which was a combination thing for both VHS and DVD.

Eager to sing, she skipped to the scene with "I Could Have Danced All Night" and stepped back a bit to be able to view it properly. She heard Stephanie move so that she could watch her properly, but she decided to ignore her presence. She'd sing much better if she pretended that she was home alone. To her horror, her nerves affected her: she sounded weak and breathy; she didn't use her diaphragm as she should. She gathered strength and confidence as she went along, but it was still a little weak at points, and her breathing was all over the place. Mercifully, she finished strongly, remembering to breathe deeply and to relax her jaw for the final two notes. She grinned from ear to ear as she turned to Stephanie.

"You have a beautiful voice," she commended. "And your love of singing just _shines _in your face. It's really easy to see how much you love it. That was beautiful."

"Thank you." _I wouldn't call that beautiful, but thank you for being so nice. _

As she gathered up her things, she stated, "You should think about performing—getting yourself out there."

'_Hmm, not likely, but okay.' _"I'll think about it."

They walked to the front door together. "It was nice to finally meet you. You've got a vibrant spirit and an obvious passion. I hope that we can meet up again. I'll pencil you in for two weeks from today."

Christine smiled. She really liked Stephanie as a person…just not so much as a teacher. "Okay. It was nice meeting you. Thank you for the lesson."

"It was my pleasure."

They shared an embrace before she took her leave. Christine sighed, torn up. She wished that she had Erik's phone number so that she could call him.

'_I guess it'll just have to wait until tomorrow. Maybe I'll make a note of everything I want to tell him.' _

She'd already written in her journal:

_Exercises: _

_Arpeggios_

_1, 5, 3, 8, 5, 3, 1_

_Syllables to try: _

_Nay _

_No_

_Koo _

_Breath: 15_

_Tone directly supported by breath_

_Don't rely on vibrato _

Under this last one, she added:

_Tell Erik about the lesson! _

Quite disappointed and frustrated with the lesson that she'd waited all day for (_days _for, actually), she now eagerly anticipated seeking validation from Erik that she wasn't crazy for thinking that vibrato was healthy.

Thirsty for music fit for a soprano, she ran upstairs and logged into her computer, where she listened (and sang along) to "My White Knight" and some of her favorite arias. She flitted from one to the other and went back to some. She felt so much better afterward. She exclaimed aloud, "Things that are actually in my range! Ah! How wonderful!" She had been parched for such music!

Mama Valerius came home to her singing (or attempting to sing—even though she knew that she shouldn't) _"Sempre Libera" _for a second time.

Since she heard the floorboards creak beforehand, Christine paused the music. She smiled and greeted her guardian, who returned the expression while asking, "How'd the lesson go?"

"Umm…she seemed nice, but I don't think it'll work out."

"Oh. Why not?"

_'Because I felt like I knew more than she did. Because I was stupid and decided to give her a chance even though she said that her background wasn't in classical.' _

Aloud, she offered, "Umm…she's just not what I'm looking for in a teacher." Jumping at the idea that hit her, she suggested, "If I can't find anyone else, may I ask Erik to tutor me?"

Mrs. Valerius sighed but conceded, "All right. If you can't find anyone else, you may ask him, but you should be sure that he knows what he's doing. He could sound knowledgeable without even really knowing of what he speaks."

'_Oh, you mean like Stephanie? …Christine, that's just mean. Don't be like that. She's a nice woman. You were ready to be friends with her.' _

"Don't just blow off every teacher you meet with. In fact, I think I'll sit in on your lessons."

Truthfully, she only barely managed to hear this depressing news. "Okay." She deflected by asking, "How was your evening?"

"It was nice. I enjoyed it. I think I'll head to bed. I know that you're on break, but you should think about heading to bed soon as well."

She nodded. "Okay. Good night." When her guardian came forward, they hugged while she remained seated; the woman petted her hair then took her leave. Christine sighed, her mind back on how eager she was to get validation from Erik.

* * *

If it weren't for the choir using the time to rehearse beforehand, his services wouldn't be needed for the Wednesday evening prayer service since few people managed to come to it. While Mrs. Valerius spoke with an old, married couple, Christine approached Erik.

He joked, "What? No choir robes?"

She tried to make it seem like she joked back by smiling, but she came across as unfunny when she answered truthfully, "During rehearsals, we don't need them. We only use them for services."

"Ah. …Go ahead and tell me. I know that you have been dying to talk about it ever since you locked eyes with me and grinned when you first came in."

She made herself comfortable on the bench and launched into her tale. She started it with how nice Stephanie was and how they had a lot of little things in common. "So, we looked over that, and—!"

"I'm sorry. I think that I missed the part where you tell me what qualifies her to teach you."

For some reason, she blushed. "Umm…here. I have the letter." She dug it out of her tote bag and handed it to him. He decided to read portions of it aloud.

Careful not to mock the paragraph featuring a great deal of religious talk (which always made him uncomfortable since he'd spent his life hating God), he read from the one below it: "'I began performing in church plays, choirs, and talent shows from the time I was very young. I have been on worship teams for the last 14 years, enjoy singing at weddings and other special events, and have performed in several—" here, his eyebrows rose as much as they could beneath the mask, and his tone went up, making Christine choke on giggles in spite of her guilt, "—coffeehouses and hotels in Southern California. I hold a **Bachelor of Arts and California Teaching Credential**. My current focus is on developing Bel Canto Vocal Studio in which you are a significant part.'" He sucked back a sigh and said, doing his best to be kind about this unknown woman, "I know that everyone has to start somewhere, but I'd prefer it if you had someone with more experience."

Half-teasing, Christine asked, "What would you consider acceptable for me?"

He smirked. "I'd say that someone who graduated with honors from Juilliard with a major in composition and minor in voice would be ideal."

Her eyebrows rose; she laughed as she questioned, "Juilliard? Isn't that aiming a little high?" It took a second for it to dawn: he'd just given her _his _credentials. Her face went slack. "…You graduated from Juilliard?"

"With honors," he repeated. "I was in the top of my class. I might have become a professor if it weren't for a rather traumatic experience at graduation." He couldn't believe it, but her gentle, curious eyes bewitched him into spilling the truth: "A jealous classmate of mine unmasked me at the graduation ceremony. It reminded me that I'd be much happier living in seclusion than dealing with constant stares and gossip."

She pressed, butterflies in her stomach, "Then why are you here?"

"Because of you…and because I'm rather fond of this organ." She giggled, and he smiled at the sound. "Tell me more about your experience with…that woman. I won't even call her a vocal teacher, because I suspect that she's not much of one."

"Well…we talked a lot through e-mails for a few days. Mama Valerius found her through a friend of hers—a woman in the congregation. She's actually talking to that friend right now…" After sparing a glance at the two females, the married couple having ventured off to talk to someone else, she shook her head. "Anyway, we started e-mailing, and she seemed nice, and she liked how enthusiastic I was. I figured that she seemed decent enough, because you can't really judge a person on their age or their experiences."

"You're wrong about the experiences portion, but continue."

She let loose a sigh but continued. "We met, and she… She was really _nice_!"

He warned, "I'm sure that she was, but that doesn't necessarily mean that she knows about what she speaks. The fact that you're getting so defensive means that you don't really want to divulge your issues with her."

Christine sighed but finally admitted, "She mentioned that she wasn't strong at the piano, but I thought that she'd at least know the basics. She hit a note and said, 'Oops! That's not middle C!'" Erik shut his eyes and clenched his jaw but urged her to go on. "She told me that…that my vibrato's too heavy, and that I shouldn't rely on my vibrato to…to find the pitch." Her eyes crinkled as she tried to make sense of this. She laughed, still bewildered.

Struck speechless by disbelief, Erik shook his head and laughed. Finally, he uttered, "First of all, you've got a healthy vibrato. You do need to train your voice more to strengthen your technique, but it's certainly not _heavy_. Yours is very natural.

"Second of all, that doesn't make any sense! Vibrato is defined as a slight variation in pitch due to the oscillation of the vocal cords; it happens when you're properly relaxed. It has nothing to do with 'finding' a pitch. Your ears are the most important tool for that.

"The only thing that I can think of that she might have focused on was tremolo, which is when your cords oscillate too quickly, causing an excessive vibrato, or the wobble, which is when they oscillate too slowly. Typically, tremolo is caused by tension. The wobble is caused by many different things, but particularly by the improper closure of the cords. Either way, you don't have that problem, but there's always the danger of developing it if you don't get proper guidance.

"Putting vibrato aside, adduction of the cords is necessary for proper singing. …Did she tell you any of this? Did she mention adduction or anything about the anatomy of the throat?"

Christine grimaced as she recalled, "She had a diagram, but she didn't really go into detail on it. She seemed more focused on teaching through us singing than lecturing on the human body."

"How can you possibly sing if you don't know anything about your instrument? It's like not knowing that sound is produced in a piano by hammers hitting the strings when you press on a key—or that sound is produced in a violin by causing vibrations, whether by plucking the strings or rubbing the bow against the strings." He scoffed. "I'm so upset right now that I can hardly think. She doesn't know anything; don't bother seeing her again. …I can't believe that you let her talk you into forcing your voice into straight-tone singing! I'm rather disappointed in you for doubting yourself.

"I hope that you know that choral singing isn't even about straight-tone; it's about blending your vowels and having resonance and acoustical alignment."

She quickly assured, "I do know that."

"Resonance is the key to having a powerful voice."

Christine sighed. She wished that her guardian weren't so distrustful of Erik.

Erik dryly prodded, "Am I boring you?"

"No! Not at all! I was just thinking that I'd…I'd like you to be my teacher, but Mama Valerius doesn't think it's proper."

Rolling his eyes, Erik muttered, "Well, if she cares about you at all, she'll want what's best for you—especially if she wants you to go somewhere with your voice. …What about the rest of your lesson?"

"Hmm…well, I was nervous, so I sounded horrible, I'm sure. I always get breathy when I'm nervous, and I tense up. My heart races; my hands get all clammy. Ugh. It's bad. _Anyway_, we did some warm-ups on the piano—what was the pattern she gave me? I think it was one, three, five, eight…no, it bounced around more than that; it must have been one, five, three, eight, five, three, one. Ah, yes! It was." She sang, using the numbers as words. Laughing as she winced, she urged, "Okay, don't judge that just now. I wasn't trying to sing my best."

"It was fine. It wasn't great, but it was fine. Continue with what you were saying."

"Umm…oh! Uhh…we used this CD for more warm-ups afterward. I think it was the same pattern, but she had me using these syllables…umm… 'Nay,' 'No,' and 'Koo,' I think."

Erik kept his dry amusement down to a smile as he replied, "Okay."

Huffing, Christine complained, "I didn't get very high, because I was so nervous—so tense. We started with the exercise for tenors and then went to soprano. The exercise was really hard for me; I was quite pitchy. She had to tell me to drop my jaw. I was so mad that she had to tell me that. And then she told me about bending your knees and going down helps with the high notes when you're learning to hit them. Ugh. I felt so embarrassed that I couldn't go higher. I _know _that I can; I've done it warming up by myself."

"That's because you're more relaxed when you're by yourself. To go high, you need your larynx to be low, and you do need to make sure that you're not psyching yourself out. You have to be relaxed."

"I know all this; I just suck at applying it."

He commented, "That's what a vocal teacher is for. What else did she have you do?"

"Umm…we did breathing exercises."

She demonstrated how she sat, and he snapped, "Oh, no! Sit up! Sit up! That's entirely wrong! You've already got horrible posture; there's no need to make it worse!" His frustration surfaced as he complained, "Christine, I thought that you were smart. I specifically warned you against this type of person, and you ignored me. How am I supposed to help you if you won't even listen to me?"

Meek, her stomach upset, she mumbled, "I'm sorry."

Erik sighed then pressed, "What else did this fool make you do?"

"She…had me sing this song from _Wicked_—it's a musical."

His jaw tightened. "I'm not liking this already. You need to learn legitimate singing before you learn belt; even good Broadway singers have some classical training. There's nothing wrong with belt; you just want to make sure that you have proper technique in singing before you try it. That being said, _you _should not be attempting belt, because you want opera, correct?" She nodded. He scoffed, "That woman doesn't deserve to call her 'studio' _Bel Canto_. She knows nothing."

Laughing, Christine offered up, "That's not even the worst part. You should hear the song that she wanted me to sing—although, to be fair, I think we sang it in a different key than the original. Here! I have Internet access on my phone. I'll load a video of it for you." Thankfully, her reception was good enough to allow for fast connection. She scooted in closer to Erik, mumbling, "Sorry. Tiny screen. …Actually, what am I doing? You just need to be able to hear it." She scooted away, shaking her head and laughing. "Sorry—again."

As he recovered from the stressful instant, he choked out through his daze, "That's all right." The feel of her leg against his still burned, though. His heart took awhile to calm down.

"Okay. It's loaded. Here we go."

She blushed when she noticed that it attracted everyone's attention; therefore, she focused her eyes on her phone's screen. She failed to notice how bored Erik was with the song, though he dutifully listened to it. He actually scoffed at the final note, making Christine giggle.

"Stephanie said that I sounded good in my chest voice."

"It sounds to me like she's trying to turn you into a mezzo."

Laughter popped from her. "Yeah, I get that sense, too."

He supplied, "You shouldn't get hung up on classifications, but you should understand where your tessitura is."

"Tessitura?"

He smiled. "Your comfort zone, where your voice has the best-sounding timbre."

With a grimace, she commented, "That is not in my chest voice." She attempted to sing the final line, and Erik stared at her with such great horror that she burst into laughter.

"Never do that again."

They both succumbed to more laughter. "Hahaha! I sound tone deaf! I sound like a dying beast!"

"That…is not your tessitura."

"That's obvious." She doubled over with another bout. "Ohh…at least she had me sing something 'that I'm proud of'."

A smile graced his face as he inquired, "What did you sing?"

"Well, it was between _The Sound of Music _and _My Fair Lady_. …Oh, I love Julie Andrews. _Anyway_, haha, umm…I ended up singing 'I Could Have Danced All Night'—along with the movie."

He nodded. "That is a better choice for you than this garbage. That last note was entirely unnecessary. I'm sure that it makes for an entertaining show, but this is junk vocally."

Christine mused, "I like the lyrics, though; they're very relatable. I don't know. I think that the song could grow on me; _I _just shouldn't sing it. Hee hee hee!"

"No, you shouldn't." He had no right to ask, but he needed to know: "Do you relate to this song?"

"Haha! Me? No! I had a boyfriend, like…freshman year, but we decided to just stay friends. I've been happily single ever since."

He knew that he treaded dangerous territory, but he couldn't help it. He had to ask. "Do you ever want to be in a relationship?"

"I don't know. Someday, maybe. I'm in a torrid love affair with music, though, so any guy trying to win my heart has his work cut out for him." Erik chuckled, and she wondered, "Is it bad when you'd rather sing than converse with someone?"

He chuckled again. "Perhaps. It's a little antisocial."

"Oh! Ho ho!" She guffawed some more and quipped, "Somehow, I get the feeling that you should not be the one to judge antisocial behavior."

"You're right. I'm terribly antisocial, though I have good reason." He cursed the fact that this sparked her curiosity. He read it clearly in her eyes. Before she could ask, he quietly admitted, knowing that it was best to get it out of the way since they would be spending a lot of time with each other, "I've been deformed since birth. And yes: it's severe enough to warrant hiding my face with a mask."

A smile bloomed on her rosy lips, and he felt that newfound warmth in his heart. "If it helps, you've got really nice teeth and beautiful eyes."

For the first time in his life, he was able to laugh and joke about his deformity. "And perfect ears."

"Oh, yes! Can't forget the ears! Hee hee hee!"

It slipped: "You have a beautiful smile. It lights up a room."

With the intent of glossing past this, though it warmed her from head to toe, Christine uttered, "Stephanie said in an e-mail, after I showed her my picture, that I have 'a beautiful smile and eyes that shine'."

"They do," he agreed. "They radiate warmth and kindness. They're very open. You don't hide your emotions."

Christine scoffed, "I'm _incapable_ of hiding my emotions. I'm physically incapable of holding onto negative emotions. As I'm sure you can tell, I smile and laugh all the time."

"Yes, I had noticed."

She laughed without knowing why. Her grin would not be moved. It simmered down into a rueful smile as she intoned, "I wish you could be my teacher. I…I feel like it's meant to be, like we were meant to meet because of it."

"If it is meant to be, it will be." Taking note of Mrs. Valerius approaching, he stated, "Ah, your guardian appears to be coming our way. Why don't we get this all out in the open, shall we?"

Christine gaped as he stood and intercepted the elderly woman, courteously greeting, "Good evening, _Madame_."

Mrs. Valerius blinked and forced a frown. Her heart wanted to melt at the dulcet tones produced from his mouth. "Good evening."

"Miss Daaé and I have been discussing her experience with her vocal teacher, and I believe that it would be in her best interest if I step in and tutor her. Your _protégée _has such a lovely voice that I'd hate to see it destroyed by an incompetent teacher. If it makes you more comfortable, I'd be willing to have the lessons in your presence, recorded on tape, wherever you'd like. Miss Daaé has a remarkable talent, and I happen to have extensive training in the classical style. I could also tutor her in French, German, and Italian, which are the three primary languages used in operas. Not only that, I studied acting when I was at Juilliard, which is another necessary skill if she desires to be an opera singer."

Christine's eyebrows rose. Mrs. Valerius struggled not to do the same. Though she kept her face stoic, she had to admit to herself that she was impressed. "Juilliard? Do you have documentation of this?"

"I do. I can present it to you the next time that we meet."

Her eyes shifted over to Christine, who rose off the bench and regarded her with beseeching eyes. The elder female gazed into Erik's eyes and found nothing but determination. It seemed as if all he cared about was aiding her vocal training. Her misgivings melted away. She agreed, "All right. As long you can show proof of your credentials, you may teach Christine—but any funny business, and I'm calling the police!"

"You have my word: our lessons together will be strictly professional. I wouldn't dream of laying a finger on Miss Daaé. I'm merely infatuated with her voice."

Christine frowned, offended at this without knowing why. She came to the conclusion that it made her feel less valued as a person. Did Erik see her as just another musical instrument? If so, that hurt! She'd begun to think of them as friends.

"Hmm," Mrs. Valerius hummed. "Very well, then. You may come by the house tomorrow—three o'clock." She quickly wrote the address in a small notepad that she carried in her purse, tearing out the leaf and handing it off to him. "We have dinner at six, so I expect you to be gone well before then."

He bowed his head lightly with his hand at his heart. "I will do my best to make sure that our lessons are concise yet efficient."

"Good. …Come along, Christine. We've got that New Year's Eve party to go to."

"Yes, ma'am." Beaming at the turn of events, she stopped at Erik's side, squeezing his arm. "See you tomorrow."

He allowed himself a hint of a smile as he replied, "See you tomorrow. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year." The grin that she gave him burned into his brain and would linger in his memory for the rest of the night. Her eyes especially would glow there, so gentle and loving.

* * *

Erik sat on his modest bed as the ball dropped. "Happy New Year…"

He smirked. For once, he wasn't bitter about it. For once, he was excited. What would this new year bring?

* * *

**A/N: To be honest, I'm not all that familiar with **_**Wicked**_**; I've never read it or seen it. My sister loves it, though. **

**Kagome-chan **


	5. Foundation

**A/N: Hello! **

**Disclaimer: I'm not a vocal teacher. I used my scant amount of tapes from my lessons with my grandma (who has been teaching voice for forty years after her singing career in opera) as inspiration for this chapter. If you're in the Denver area, look her up. I'll give out her name to those that live in Denver. **

**Of course, a lot of it will be my imagination on how Erik would teach. For instance, my grandma never showed me any videos; I found a certain video featured in this chapter on my own – and traumatized myself. Lol. **

**Enjoy! **

* * *

Chapter Five: Foundation

This time, she fretted more about her appearance, which was silly, because appearance hardly mattered to Erik. Still, she ran her hands over her short-sleeved, navy blue dress and checked to see that her heart necklace was on display. The two together looked funky, so she chose to remove the heart one. It was more important to her to wear her cross. Though the necklace from Raoul was pretty, the cross was a gift from her father. She almost never took it off; the two exceptions were the shower and bed.

She smiled as she put the necklace in her new jewelry box. It filled her heart with warmth and made her giggle. When she shut it, she ran her hand over her painted name on the lid. With another smile, she left it to return to preparing for the day.

Not liking her hair all the way down, she brushed some of it back so that the top layers were in a ponytail while the bottom layers remained down. She beamed, happy to find this style particularly flattering for her slender, heart-shaped face. If she felt pretty, then she would feel confident and happy, more relaxed, and ready to sing. At least, that was what she told herself; she chose to ignore the fact that she did it possibly because she wanted to look pretty for Erik. That'd be weird.

She drew the line at make-up; the only times that she wore make-up were for performances or special occasions. Even then, she didn't wear much—such as at the Christmas concert. All she'd worn was some mascara and a light amount of eye shadow that matched her skin tone (more or less). She'd had on lip balm, but it didn't look like she'd had anything on—which was her whole point.

Her first real lesson with Erik could constitute a special occasion, and it was the first day of the year, but she shook her head; she wouldn't bother with it. Make-up was too troublesome. She didn't know how Meg could bear to spend such long periods before the mirror, preening. The idea of it made her impatient, and she was generally a patient person. She did like its effect; it just wasn't worth the trouble.

Although she was a little nervous, she was generally fine until the knock at her door came, at which point she got rather jittery. She was both anxious and overly excited. Thankfully, she kept it down to a grin and the internal squealing locked in her heart.

Mrs. Valerius had the maid answer it. Christine grinned harder when she heard Erik say, "Good afternoon. I have an appointment with Miss Daaé."

"Yes," the maid replied, stepping back. "Please come in."

Erik stepped in and noted the beaming Christine. He smiled and nodded as he greeted, "Good afternoon." In his hands, he carried a small stack of sheet music booklets and a book on singing, on top of which sat a tape recorder.

"Good afternoon," Christine hastily replied. For some weird reason, she almost curtsied, which then got her giggling. Putting her hand to her chest, she apologized, "Sorry. I, umm…heh…uhh…get giggly sometimes—usually when I'm nervous."

"Well, you have no reason to be nervous. In fact, you need to get comfortable singing around me as soon as possible. We have a lot of work to do."

She nodded and gestured in the direction that they would take for getting to the living room from the foyer. "The piano's in the living room. Right this way." She turned and bit down on her lower lip, squealing yet again with excitement on the inside.

Erik complimented as they went along, "You have a lovely home."

Trailing behind him watchfully, Mrs. Valerius replied, "Thank you."

He asked of Christine, "How long have you lived here?"

"Umm," the teen answered with her bad habit, "about four years. In a nutshell, I was born in Uppsala, Sweden when my parents were vacationing there for my mother's birthday—and the holiday of _Sankta Lucia_, both of which are December 13th. We had to stay there for a few months, because I was born four months premature, so I needed time to grow to term."

Realizing belatedly that she'd let it slip, she gasped very quietly. Erik heard her anyway with his sharp ears. As she promised herself that she wouldn't mention anything about her surgeries, she pressed on fluently, adding, "They had originally met in New York, but they had taken up in Denver when my mother found out that she was pregnant with me. Why Denver? I don't know. I guess it appealed to them somehow. Anyway, after my mother died, we moved out here. Mr. Valerius heard my father play at a fair and was so impressed that he decided to become his benefactor. So, we moved in here…but then my father got lung cancer and died. Before he died, though, he signed me over to Mama Valerius, so she's my legal guardian."

Amazed that she could rattle off the facts with so little emotion (with the exception of an odd sort of forced cheer), Erik nodded then inquired, "Where is Mr. Valerius?" He'd yet to process all of what she said, because she spoke so quickly. Later on, when he was alone, he would recall the fleeting detail that she was born prematurely, and he would marvel at it. Four months was a large chunk of time to miss out on. She was lucky not to have any developmental problems.

The widow replied, "He passed away a few months before Mr. Daaé, I'm afraid."

"Hmm. I'm sorry to hear that." He didn't particularly care about him, however. All that mattered was Christine and her family—her history. Upon recalling the mention that her father "played," Erik pressed, "What did your father play?" He could only see the back of Christine's head—with its sparkly, silver and blue butterfly clip—so he didn't see the way that her jaw tightened.

She couldn't bring herself to tell him. Speaking the word felt like it would tear her heart out. She felt _angry _when Mama Valerius answered for her.

"He was a great violinist—sensational! I taught Christine the piano, but he taught her the violin. When they would play together, it was...unearthly. When he would play, and she would sing, it was magical. Christine, what ever happened to your violin? I know that you kept your father's, but what did you do with yours?"

"I can't remember," she ground out. She didn't want to recall that, in a fit of rage and grief, she'd smashed it. She sensed that Erik would be very angry with her if he knew. They hadn't really touched on it, but she could tell that he took great care of his instruments and cared about the condition of every instrument.

The image of the violin's splintered body haunted her now. The way that the strings hung loosely…the way that the body was nearly severed from the neck…made her so ashamed. She'd cried then, knowing how hurt her father must have been.

Her eyes stung now, but she took a deep breath, blinked a lot, and willed the tears away. "I don't play anymore," she warned. _So don't try to make me. _

"Pity," he murmured. "I imagine that you must have been spectacular at it."

Remorse swept in for an instant, and she admitted, "I was." She smiled, laughing wryly. "I was really good. I practiced the violin more than I sang."

This surprised him. He thought that her voice was her greatest passion. He supposed that, now, it was. When he thought about it, he had a hard time ranking his instruments, but he could eventually do it: violin, organ, piano, flute, harp, cello, voice, guitar. He didn't particularly enjoy singing, but he loved listening to it. Christine's voice would soon become his favorite instrument, perhaps even beating out the violin.

He knew that he shouldn't press her, but he asked, "Do you think that your father would be happy that you've given up on the violin?"

"No." She swallowed, tightening her jaw. "He'd be disappointed and very saddened…but he would probably understand. He'd never want to cause me pain, and playing does cause me pain."

"I can teach you how to push past it—how to _use _it to better your music. Some of the most beautiful music arises from grief."

She didn't want to be rude, so she mumbled, "Maybe."

Erik was amazed at the change in her demeanor. It fascinated him. He was so used to seeing her open and happy that the sound of her terse and closed-off astounded him. Oddly, it made him giddy. He liked that she could get angry. In a way, he wanted to see her angry—simply because he knew that she didn't get angry often. It would do her good to purge herself of negative emotions every now and then…and music was the perfect outlet for that. His blood hummed in his veins at the idea of the violin music that she had locked within her.

Christine gestured at the piano, smiling at him. He noted that her smile wasn't the usual one; it was a little forced. She was still dealing with lingering tension in her heart. "You can set the booklets on the piano or on the floor for now—or we could get another chair for them."

"I'd prefer the extra chair."

Mrs. Valerius told the maid to grab an extra chair. Meanwhile, she commanded, "You said that you could provide documentation. Where is it?"

Amused that she stuck to her demands, Erik admitted, "I left it in my car, because I still have other things to get. I'll go get them now."

Curious to see what his car looked like, Christine offered, "Do you need any help?"

"No, that's all right. I can handle it."

She walked with him (partly to lead him back to the foyer), insisting, "I don't mind. I'd like to help you carry things."

"Well, if you insist." He smiled, and she beamed.

She didn't know what to expect, but a black Lancer took her by surprise. It fit him, but it also didn't. She didn't know what car she expected him to drive—perhaps a larger one, perhaps more of a sports car. A black convertible seemed likely.

Erik handed off his framed awards to Christine, who glanced at what she could from the top one—his diploma from Juilliard. Meanwhile, he grabbed a small mirror and a black music stand that spanned the length of his trunk. The mirror was a hand mirror made of ash wood, pale and silky in texture. He'd spent days on it, working for hours at a time, with few breaks, all because he knew that she would one day be his student, and that it would come in handy. He made it specifically for her, careful with its size because of her tiny hands. The handle reflected this; it wasn't too long, and it wasn't too thick. The mirror itself was a decently-sized oval. He'd painted the back, but he wouldn't point this out to her until later.

He paused in closing his trunk when he noticed how Christine stared semi-vacantly into the trunk, her lips parted. She'd spied his violin case.

"If you'd like, I can bring it in…perhaps play for you."

"No. Thank you." She clenched her jaw and turned on her heel, walking as quickly as her short legs would allow.

He smirked, amused. This little game of theirs was quite fun. He'd win it, though, by getting her to play again. He didn't grab his violin, but he did grab a jewel case beneath it featuring a burned disc. He stowed in his jacket, shut the trunk, then picked up the stand in his left (stronger) hand, carrying the small mirror in his right.

Back inside, he set up the stand close to the piano, adjusting it to her height from its closed position, tugging it upward until it was perfect. He then handed the mirror to her.

She held it by the handle, her left hand braced against the smooth back. "What's this?"

"A mirror."

Laughing, she amended, "I know. I meant, 'Why do I need it?'"

"So that you can watch yourself. Ideally, I'd want you looking into a mirror hanging upon the wall so that you wouldn't have to hold onto anything, but maybe this is better—it'll give your clammy hands something to do."

She guffawed, shocked that he would use the information that she gave him against her. He merely grinned and set to arranging things. The booklets, he left on the spare chair, but he lifted the tape recorder, trying to find an ideal place for it. He really didn't want to put it on the piano, because he wanted to open it up. (That, and he abhorred the idea of the instrument being treated like a coffee table.) The maid brought in a nightstand from somewhere else, smiling as she placed it between Christine's music stand and the piano. He nodded gratefully at the young woman then requested, "Would you please get us a tall glass of water—at room temperature, if at all possible?"

In awe of his speaking voice, she nodded and stepped out. She was quite eager to secretly listen in on the lesson, for she enjoyed singing herself and happened to be a soprano as well. She'd already listened in on Christine's previous lesson, but Christine had confided in her that this other teacher had given her some unreliable information. After returning with a coaster and the water, the maid set the glass down on the nightstand between the two. She left the room but didn't go far; she took a seat in the hallway, getting comfortable up against the wall, her legs crossed as she sat on the floor.

Christine wondered, "Why room temperature?"

"Because you want it neither too hot nor too cold. If you drink something cold, it tightens your cords, making it hard to sing. If it's too hot, it causes them to swell—and possibly burns them a little." She nodded, storing this information away. She'd have to remember to only drink water at room temperature before singing. Normally, she drank refrigerated water.

Once he had the grand opened up, the process of which fascinated Christine since he did it so deftly, Erik pressed record on the medium-sized machine that he brought.

"Today is the first of January, 2009. It's a little before three o'clock in the afternoon, and what follows will be our first real lesson together."

All of a sudden, Christine felt incredibly intimidated as Erik moved over to the piano. Her stomach rapidly became upset, and she could barely breathe. "First things first: breathe; relax. Your posture's atrocious. You want to straighten your back a little more and keep your shoulders down. Don't force them down; just relax them. _Relax! _…That's it.

"I know that you're short, but you want to stand tall and proud. If you're hunched over, it will be much harder to use your diaphragm and your lungs. It's partly why you're so terrible at breathing; the rest of it is that you don't understand how to breathe for singing—despite being in choir." She smiled but slipped out of the correct stance, garnering, "Keep your shoulders down. You're tense, so your shoulders are rising. …Good. Now, look in the mirror. You will almost always be looking in the mirror so that you can watch yourself."

She nearly laughed at the fact that she looked as nervous as she felt. Were she the type to faint, she'd say that she looked like she was about to keel over.

"Just relax," Erik coaxed. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I won't bite."

This didn't really help, but Christine offered a shaky smile, took a deep breath, and nodded.

"Let's start with 'Ooh-ah'." He abruptly began to play the pattern on the piano, eyeing her. As it started up the second time, she joined in. "A little bit louder, please! The piano's drowning you out!" Embarrassed, she tried to increase her volume, but she just couldn't: she wasn't comfortable with this yet.

Realizing her discomfort, Erik kept going, coming to the conclusion that she would get more comfortable with time. They didn't go very high before he stopped to give her a much-needed critique.

"As I'm observing you now, I notice that you wait until the last second to take a breath. I want you to get into the habit of taking a breath at the end of the last exercise before you start the next one. All right?"

Wary of the recording, Christine nodded, not wanting her speaking voice caught on tape. Though she loved to sing, she absolutely abhorred listening to her speaking voice.

They started on a different pattern but kept the same syllables. They didn't get very far before Erik critiqued, "Any time I see your shoulders go up, I know that you're taking in high, tight air, which robs you of space to sing in. So, what you want to do is get used to having this empty—" he soundlessly patted his chest, "—the top of your chest empty, and you want to feel like you're just opening your body." He gave her an example then stated, "That was a deep breath, and it didn't sound like it, did it?"

"No," she replied.

"What it does, it stands in the way of your spaces that you have to sing in. You have spaces from here to here that have to resonate." He gestured from his face to his chest. "Your primary resonation tract is from your larynx to your pharynx through your mouth, and if it's stuffed with air, you can't use it. Breathe as high as you can." She did. "Now talk to me."

"Umm…what should I say?"

"Well, isn't it hard to talk? It's harder to sing." She laughed, and he offered, "So, you want to feel like all your air is from here down." He gestured at the diaphragm. "This is not true, but feel that your air isn't going through your throat; it's going through your navel." As they started up the exercise again, he told her when to breathe. "If it goes up, you're high. –Release!"

Christine made a face at how badly she hit a high note. Forgetting about the presence of the other woman, Erik scolded, "Don't critique yourself. You'll make mistakes, and this is where you'll make them—not in front of people. This is workshop; you're allowed to be terrible here." She, too, had tuned out Mama Valerius; the two musicians concentrated solely on each other. "Now, I'm noticing that there's some tension in your jaw. Tell me where you think you open your mouth."

'_Is this a trick question? …Well, technically, it's not a question, but whatever.' _

At her silence, Erik prodded, "How do you open your mouth?"

Hating the fact that he was forcing her to speak when she didn't want her speaking voice preserved on tape, Christine ventured, "By dropping your jaw?"

"Yes, your jaw—not your chin. You have to have space in here." Dropping his jaw, he pointed at what he meant. "Let's go to 'Mi-ah!'."

Before they could start up, the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed the hour, interrupting them. Erik waited until it was finished before he began again.

The lesson continued with intermittent lecturing from Erik, such as how she needed to be the boss of her jaw—how it was a very strong muscle since she used it all day long to talk, chew, and swallow.

"Watch your chin! Don't let it crack!"

As she went higher on the staccato 'Ah's of their exercise, Christine's voice cracked, and she felt like dying from embarrassment.

"Put your fingers on your larynx," Erik instructed. "The voice box. Now, when you sing, it goes up; what it must do, if anything, is go down." They started again, with her feeling the larynx move beneath her fingers, and she squeaked. "Your jaw took over, and that's a very natural, protective thing—but it's got to go." As she sang again, only squeaking slightly, he urged, "That's better." With that encouragement, she relaxed more and improved. "That's wonderful," he praised. It made her glow and stoked her confidence.

Coming to a stop, he stated, "We always think of this octave—" he played a major chord in the higher octave, "as being difficult, but it shouldn't be any harder than this octave." He played one below it—right around Middle C. "The reason is you're probably over pushing the air. It takes less air for this octave—" he played the higher one, "than this octave." He finished it off with the other one. "It's hard to come to grips with this. Everyone thinks, 'Here's a high note!'" He gasped in air to imitate this. "With that mentality, you defeat yourself. What we want to strive for is lots of room and relaxation, and the larynx must stay low."

He began to discuss the difference in vowels—the improper way to say them and the proper way. Standing and rounding the piano, he approached his student and instructed, "I want you to feel what happens in my throat when I speak. Put your hand on my larynx." He guided her to it, gently pressing her hand there. She got a little warm. "This is mid-throat. Oh," he said improperly, speaking blandly and like most teenagers might. "This is a dropped larynx." He then gave the proper pronunciation, his voice becoming richer and deeper.

"Whoa!" Christine cried, laughing out of shock.

"Did you feel the difference?" His voice buzzed against her hand.

"Uh-huh."

"Good. Now try it on yourself." He released her hand and watched her mimic him. "Do you feel the difference? Did it go down?"

"Mm-hm." She tittered. She felt like an idiot.

Returning to the piano, he stated, "They talk about an 'open throat,' which is deceptive because most people try to spread their throat. It should be narrow. It should feel as wide as your nose, but you want room this way—" he held up his index finger vertically. "What really stands in the way is the epiglottis. It does this—" he gestured the way it moved to cover the windpipe with his hand, "and when you go to the top of your voice, it has to go like this." Again, he used his hand to mimick how the epiglottis should move to be out of the way. "It's an involuntary muscle and hates to be told what to do, but you've got to become the boss. What I want you to do is exercise the epiglottis, pulling it forward. It's going to feel very tense and tight right here." He touched the part of his throat that connected with the jaw. "Put the tip of your tongue up, and say, 'Oh!'"

Feeling a bit ridiculous, she did as she was told.

They started another exercise on 'Oh'. He commanded, "Don't let your jaw get in the way!"

When they stopped, he offered, "When you first start out, you might think, 'Oh! I have a sore throat!' when, really, what will be happening is that you're exercising your muscles. Just like when you exercise any muscle for a long period of time, these muscles will get sore, too. Let's do _'Ooh-AH-ah-ah-ah.'_"

She shivered at how his voice could be so beautiful on such a simple thing. It hardly seemed fair that it left her empty when the sound stopped. He played the exercise on the piano, and she joined in, but he interrupted, "I want you to slide. It's contrary to choir mentality, but there are all sorts of different animals. In here, you will forget about being a choir animal and instead become a solo animal."

As they went through it, he paused to remark, "Now, this is what I'm seeing, and it's a natural event, too." He sang, imitating the way her jaw moved on the 'ah' sounds. "You don't want the jaw involved in producing sound. And I want the tip of your tongue deep in your mouth because that will also lower your larynx.

"Let's experiment: put the tip of your tongue at the top of your teeth. Now put your hand on your throat. Slide your tongue down to the bottom of your mouth."

"Whoa!"

Smirking, Erik questioned, "Did you feel the larynx go down?"

"Yeah!"

"That's what you want."

They resumed their exercise, going higher before heading back down. He urged, "Breathe right."

She tried to keep her breathing in mind all while watching herself in the hand mirror to make sure that her jaw stayed as it should—as well her tongue. Suddenly, phlegm got in her way, causing her to clear her throat.

"Ah, ah, ah!" Erik scolded. "Even the greatest get phlegm, but you mustn't clear your throat. When you clear your throat, you risk creating nodules. Instead, do this." He made a sound akin to a cat hacking up a hairball, and Christine laughed. "Drink your water and swallow deeply, but never clear your throat."

Even though she agreed, she found herself doing it again later in the lesson, causing Erik to reprimand, "What did I say?" She grabbed her water glass from the coaster on the nightstand and drank from it. "Mm-hm," he hummed authoritatively with a stern nod. A bit abashed, Christine smiled as she conscientiously replaced the glass on its coaster without noise.

"We're going to do some staccato exercises. The reason why is that the cords just _touch_. You don't want them to flop. I want you to get in touch with your cords, the feeling of your cords, because that's your instrument. If you don't know what the instrument feels like and how to correct something when something's wrong, you won't be successful as a singer. You can't ignore your instrument.

"Let's do another tongue exercise because the tongue is one of the greatest offenders that we have. On 'Ah!' _Ah, ah, ah, AH, ah, ah, ah!_ Tongue out—think long, not wide. …Your jaw's tightening!" She squeaked, and he called, "Slide it! …Your jaw's taking over! …I don't want you to go wide. Look at how wide you are." Her eyes strayed to him, and he ordered, "Keep watching! See how you want to go wide? And you do get an opening, but it's the wrong opening. It's a spread tone." He demonstrated it for her, and she nearly laughed at how ridiculous it was coming from him. "You don't want that." She picked back up, and he reprimanded, "Don't pull it to the side. Look at yourself!"

"Ah," she complained, lowering the mirror for the moment, "it's hard!"

Deadpanning, he replied, "Everything I give you is hard. Singing is not easy."

From there, they began to work on forming the proper shape of her mouth. He used French as an example, going with the first phrase that popped into his head. "You don't say, _'Je vous aime beaucoup,'_" his tone spread and his lips lax. "You say, _'Je vous aime beaucoup.'_" He sounded much more regal on the second time, and his lips formed the words properly. Christine grinned at the fact that he'd said 'I love you very much' (albeit formally) as an example. It brought her to the conclusion that there was a hidden romantic within Erik. She thought that she'd like to see how sweet and considerate he could be with a girl that he loved; he'd already been so with her birthday gift.

Internally, she gasped at the fact that she'd started losing focus on the lesson; she immediately truncated her thoughts and tuned in, hoping that she hadn't missed anything. She didn't think that she had.

"It's not that you can't ever go wide, but I want you to think for right now that there are no creases in the corners of your mouth—like a fish. Now I want 'N-G'—'ng'—to 'ah'. Now, the 'N-G' starts where the uvula is. It starts back there. —The pathway of the tone is not through a hole in your mouth. It doesn't go this way—" he pointed his finger at her with his hand by his mouth. "It goes this way." He pointed his finger up at the ceiling.

Standing, he moved around and pulled a book from the stack on the chair. "This is a very interesting picture," he said when he opened it up to the page he wanted. "When you're singing chest, you feel mask plus chest. When you're singing in mid-voice, you feel the sensation right here." He placed his hand on his throat. "But as you go higher, the sensations are clear back here." He pointed to where the back of his throat would be. "That way, you have enough space. It's all about finding the right spaces."

Pointing out the diagram, he said, "See? The pathway of the tone gets impinged if the epiglottis doesn't come forward." It was clear to see from this labeled, profile shot that the trachea sat in front of the esophagus, and that the epiglottis moved back to cover it.

Moving on, he set the book aside and began to address the issue with which she seemed to struggle most (aside from breathing), returning to the piano as he did so.

"Phlegm is a protective mechanism. Now, the more you clear your throat, the more phlegm you get. And part of what's irritating your cords and damaging your voice, making you feel the need to clear your throat, is how you speak. Your speaking voice is too low. You're speaking down here," he hit the G below middle C on the piano, "when you should be speaking up here." The key he sharply hit this time was an octave higher. "Now that's where you should be speaking. You should never speak below a B-flat, and you need to speak with resonance. This is where I speak." He forcefully tapped the same key a few times in a row, demonstrating where his natural pitch was. "Do you hear how powerful my voice sounds?" he fairly boomed, making her want to take a step back. "It sounds low and rich because it's resonant."

Lowering his volume, causing his pupil to relax, he told her, "You have to pay attention to how you speak because you're very soft-spoken, which means that you open your cords a lot. Now, for example, if you have laryngitis, the very worst thing you can do is whisper. The air flowing through those cords irritates them, which is why you feel the need to clear your throat all the time. If you do feel raspy, pay attention to how you're speaking. Now back to 'ng-ah'! You want to start it at the back of the pallet."

Soon, the exercise ended, and Erik declared, "All right. Let me just grab your sheet music, and we'll begin."

"Begin what?"

While he maneuvered around the piano and went hunting for the particular booklet that he wanted, he distractedly replied, "Your song, of course."

She didn't want to admit it, but fear shot through her. Her greatest weakness was sight-reading, and she was about to get thrown into a new song. _'Oh, God!'_ She even thought about asking if she could have some time to practice it on her own, but she knew even as the thought came to her that he would never allow it.

"Here we go!" he cried triumphantly, lifting up a beige booklet.

She numbly accepted it, noting the front: _24 Italian Songs and Arias_. She obediently cracked it open to the specified page, setting the book on the stand. His finger tapped down on the title: _"Caro Mio Ben"_. Christine's cheer returned instantly, and she cried, "We sang this in choir in school last year!" She was ecstatic that she wouldn't have to truly sight-read before him (at least not this time).

"It's a very famous piece," he replied. "Now," he said while sitting back down at the piano, "let's begin."

During the piano intro, Christine mistakenly cleared her throat (albeit quietly), causing the music to come to an abrupt halt. She grinned sheepishly at her instructor, but he was not amused. He sighed. "Do you have Internet access?"

"Yes. …In my room." She winced. Sparing a glance in her direction, she noticed that Mama Valerius had fallen asleep on the couch.

"Use your phone, then. There's something that I want you to watch."

He got up and stopped the recording for a moment. Confused and a bit nervous, she went and got her phone from where she'd left it in the foyer earlier in the morning. As they sat together on the loveseat, a fair distance from the couch where Mama Valerius slept on the matching couch, he had her look up a video labeled "Laryngoscopy - Nodules".

It started with a man explaining what he planned to do. He began talking about the instrument he would use—the one that would go up the nose and down the throat.

Already, Christine shrank back into her seat. She didn't like where this was going, and she hoped that the video wouldn't actually show the graphic medical procedure.

At first, she turned her head to the side to avoid looking, but Erik gently poked her temple, forcing her to face the screen again. He took over holding the device since she didn't seem to want to hold it anymore.

All in all, it was pretty gross to see, but there were a few portions that had her tossing her tongue out of her mouth in place of gagging ("Huuh! Huuh! HOH!") or had her going, "Oh! Oh, no! Oh, NO!" with a large amount of horror. It startled Mama Valerius awake, and she zeroed in on the two, instantly suspicious until she heard the audio of the video, which relaxed then disturbed her.

As whoever sang creaked out their note, practically wheezing, Christine clapped her hands to her cheeks and cried, "Nooo!" with great dismay. "Nooo!" She wasn't sure whether she was laughing or sobbing with discomfort after exclaiming this, and her smile wasn't any indication.

It was a seven-minute video. At the end of it, she sat and stared at the screen in horror, her lips puckered together. She clapped a hand over her mouth and started tittering. She could fairly say that she was traumatized. When she could find her voice, she declared, "I'll never sing again!"

Rolling his eyes, Erik corrected, "No. Say, 'I'll never clear my throat again.'"

Beginning to laugh semi-hysterically, she echoed, "I'll never clear my throat again."

"Good. Now let's get back to work and finish the lesson."

She slumped into the seat. "I'm going to have nightmares about that video."

Erik sighed and said, "I'm sorry, but you weren't listening to me. At least now I know that you'll do as I ask from now on."

Still caught up in the aftermath of the video, Christine smiled through her traumatized whimpering on the word, "No…." and laughed. "Oh, that was horrible!" She smiled most of the time—even when angry, though that could be considered more of a frustrated gritting of her teeth. "I think I need a hug!" The sound that came next was between a whimper and a laugh, though it could have been a sob.

Sighing anew, Erik placed his hand on her shoulder and apologized again, offering, "I'm sorry, but you can't deny that it was educational."

"I think I liked the diagrams better," she complained before whimpering again, puckering her lips in a pathetic little frown.

Before he could stop himself, he smoothed her hair. Silky and soft, these few seconds of contact were the most blissful of his life. Luckily for him, Mama Valerius was still quite out of it, though he didn't bother to check. He dropped his hand, deciding, "I think we've done enough for today, anyway. I don't want to overdo you. We'll pick up our lesson tomorrow, and I'll show you more exercises to do—things with the glottis and your tongue."

"Okay." She held it together for another two seconds before whimpering again.

In his mind, Erik cynically questioned, _'If she's this traumatized seeing a natural part of the human anatomy, how much worse would she be upon seeing my face?'_ He really didn't want to know.

Taking a deep breath, Christine insisted, "Whoo. Okay. I'm okay now."

They both jumped in their seats when Mama Valerius groggily wondered, "Was it really necessary to traumatize her like that?"

Nervous, although he hid it well, Erik replied, "Yes. I told her not to clear her throat, and she wouldn't listen, so I figured that she needed to see the consequences. It wasn't that graphic or horrific; it was a natural function of the human body."

"Not that graphic," Christine grumbled. "Hoh…I hate to see what you call graphic!"

Mrs. Valerius demanded of Erik, "Are you done with your lesson?" She still didn't trust him. He did know a great deal about music, to be sure, but she didn't trust him when it came to anything else concerning the pair.

"Just about," Erik confirmed. "I'll pack up my things and go."

Disappointment zinged through Christine, ending with a pang in her stomach. "Why don't you stay for dinner?"

Before the girl's guardian could object, he answered, "Because I don't think that that's very proper. I'd prefer it if we kept things at a professional level." This contradicted the fact that he'd just touched her hair, but he hoped that she wouldn't remember this.

He hated that he so clearly wounded her, but he needed for Mama Valerius to trust him, because the woman could kick him out at a moment's notice—and then where would they be? He could always find a way around the restrictions, but he preferred dealing with less hassle at this point.

"Okay," Christine conceded. "Well, thank you for the lesson. I feel like I've learned a lot already."

He smirked. "We've only just begun." It made her grin.

"I'll walk you to the door," she immediately tossed out.

"Thank you."

Mama Valerius told her maid to help Erik carry his things out to the car (so that Christine wouldn't have to). At the door, Christine tried to give Erik back the mirror. He shook his head, uttering, "That's yours to keep. I made it for you." Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped.

"You made it?"

"Yes. Look at the back."

She hadn't thought to look at the back. Now that she turned it over, she spied a glossy image: a red rose, her name beneath it. Christine smiled at Erik and hugged him. "Thank you." She quickly pulled back, still beaming.

"You're welcome. Have a good evening."

"You, too." Once Erik was gone, she unabashedly ran her hands over the back of the mirror, grinning at it. It was beautiful. She adored it, squeezing it against her chest before she ran upstairs in order to e-mail Meg and her other friends to gush about her lesson. Mama Valerius frowned, hoping that things wouldn't go in the direction that they seemed to be going. She felt like a rock in the middle of a river: the water was going to rush around her regardless of how she tried to stand in its way.

With the maid's help, Erik soon got all of his belongings back in his car. The girl uttered, careful to keep her voice down, "Madame actually likes you. She wouldn't have fallen asleep if she didn't trust you."

Shocked, though he didn't show it, Erik replied, "Thank you."

The girl smiled and nodded. "Have a nice day." He nodded in return, watching as she returned inside. He smiled to himself as he got into his car, buckled in, and started up the engine. He took off at a fast speed, just barely keeping within the speed limit. He definitely had a good feeling about all this. It would only be a matter of time before Mrs. Valerius trusted him implicitly, which meant that he could do things like stay for dinner or even take Christine out to places such as museums or music events. He just had to have patience.

* * *

**A/N: Remember: I'm not a vocal teacher, though maybe I'll become one in the future. Who knows? I'm leaning towards becoming a speech pathologist, and they both focus on production of the voice. **

**I sing (mostly self-taught) but not in any venues—just at home and while I'm out and about. I was in choir in high school. I play the piano (not that well, in my opinion), taking lessons from my dad—who makes his living as a pianist, mostly playing for ballet classes, though he's also a composer. I played the flute for a few years but got lazy with it. I don't play the violin, but I would kill to. Lol. I'd practice it more than I sing (meaning: all the time). The violin's my favorite instrument. **

**That's the extent of my musical knowledge. **

**: ) **

**Please review! **

**Kagome-chan **


	6. Discomfort

**A/N: Belated though it is, I would like to disclaim something. **

**In chapter two, I made the typo of "retard" instead of "ritard". Lol. The word **_**"ritard"**_** is short for **_**"ritardando,"**_** which means "gradually slowing in tempo" or "retarding". **

**((gasp!)) Word CHANGED it! I just realized that Word CHANGED it on me – because it just did it again! That's why! Ugh! Screw you, Word! Don't auto-correct foreign words! Grr! **

**Anyway, I know enough about music to know that it's "ritard" and not "retard," especially since it's abbreviated on sheet music as "rit.". **

**Also, in case I was too ambiguous, ch 4 is an example of what NOT to do. Stephanie is an example of a BAD teacher. I thought it was obvious that my opinion lay with Erik and Christine, but maybe not. Sorry for any confusion! **

**Carry on! : ) **

* * *

Chapter Six: Discomfort

"It will be very important for you to learn how to keep your air in while you're singing. If you can manage this, you'll end up taking fewer breaths during a song. The few breaths that you will take will be strategically placed and deep. That being said, be wary of going blue in the face from trying to sing without enough air."

Christine pursed her lips and nodded, embarrassed that he'd caught her at it, though it wasn't surprising. He watched her with sharp eyes and listened with even sharper ears whenever she sang—even if they were in a relaxed setting where she wasn't trying to sing to her fullest.

It was only the second lesson, but it already felt natural. Sipping her water, she admitted, "I used to drink refrigerated water. You know, Stephanie never mentioned anything about cold liquids. She said that drinking too much tea was bad—that caffeine is bad for your vocal cords."

Erik just barely kept his temper in check as he uttered with forced calm, "Christine, I want you to dispose of any information that woman gave you. She's an imbecile. That being said, caffeine is bad for your vocal cords, but there isn't enough caffeine in tea to do damage. The real damage lies in soda. Do you drink soda?"

She winced and uneasily agreed, "Yeah. When I'm hanging out at Meg's, usually…and when I go out to eat…and, sometimes, here, too."

"Soda is unhealthy for you in general, but it's horrible for your throat. All that sugar, carbonation, and caffeine is bad for your cords. It's like pouring acid down your throat; considering the ingredients in soda, it literally is acid. You might consider cutting soda from your life entirely. It will make you much healthier. You'll also want to avoid consuming too much chocolate—it has milk, sugar, _and _caffeine. You shouldn't go without dairy products, but you would do well to remember to keep things in moderation."

Christine nodded and smiled. She loved listening to Erik lecture. He always had interesting things to say.

"All right. Moving on. 'Mi-ah!'" He launched right into it, and she waited a second before joining in. Once they finished with this, he asked, "Do you know how to roll your R's?"

Since it was necessary to roll one's R's in Swedish, she was quite proficient at it, her tongue fluttering easily with her airflow. She smiled proudly when she finished.

"Good," he complimented. "Now sing while rolling your tongue—the exercise we just did on 'Mi-ah'."

Things weren't so bad…until she reached her upper register. Her left eye squeezed shut at how bad it was as she squeaked. Her mouth pulled to the side as well.

"Stop that!" Erik commanded in horror. "Stop it right now! Don't ever do that! You look like you're having a stroke!" Christine burst out laughing, mortified yet amused. He took a moment to calm down then taught by inquiring, "Why do you think that happened?"

"Umm…" She grinned helplessly.

"Your jaw was locked, and you were tense. Relax everything; drop the jaw; try again." She did, and he praised, "Good! Much better! See, the good thing about this exercise is that the tone goes where it wants. Let's do it a few more times."

They kept at it until Erik decided that they would go onto lip trills. Unfortunately, Christine was horrible at this. After three failed attempts that came out sounding more like embarrassing farts, she growled in complaint then laughed with great embarrassment.

Trying to keep her from getting too frustrated while also attempting to hold onto his patience, he told her to relax her mouth completely. He demonstrated the exercise for her, and she tentatively mimicked him, her thumb and first two fingers of her left hand pressing into either side of her mouth where her teeth met, air passing her lips but without the necessary vibration. She still failed.

"Can you blow a raspberry?"

"Yeah."

"Blow a raspberry."

Feeling silly about it, Christine stuck her tongue between her lips. She was too busy trying not to laugh to do a proper one, so she ended up creating a fart sound, which only succeeded in making her giggle childishly for a good ten to fifteen seconds. When she finally collected herself, Erik dryly questioned, "Are you done? If you are, please try again."

Unfortunately, this got her laughing anew, which caused Erik to sigh and slump a bit, his hands falling to his lap. It was times like these that made him realize that she was still only a teenager and, thus, prey to immaturity. To his surprise, she suddenly pulled herself together and produced a raspberry, regarding him maturely when she finished, though a smile tugged at her lips.

"Good. Now apply the logic it takes to do that to your lips."

She huffed then lazily blew her lips, causing them to buzz. She lit up when she realized that this was the correct thing. She repeated her action, drawing it out until Erik told her to stop. Tittering, she put her hand to her nose and uttered, "I'm all tingly."

"As you should be. It should also affect your stomach and sides."

"Yeah. I feel that."

"Now do that while singing, and you'll have the exercise down. —Fingers! They'll keep you from tightening your jaw too much and keep your cheeks from puffing."

She put them back where they belonged and started singing with the lip trills. "Even though your mouth is closed, I can still see tension in your jaw. Relax it!" She tried to keep this in mind as she watched herself in the hand mirror. It was hard work to maintain it, and her lips began to tire. As she got higher, she pooped out, her lips stopping even though her sound kept going. She cut herself off.

"My nose is super tingly, and I think my lips are going numb!" Erik watched with great amusement as she licked at them as if this would help discern the fact. When she moved her mouth around, testing it out, she still felt numb. Her hand went to her nose.

He offered, "That's all we'll do for now on these exercises, but I want you to practice them at home—well, on our own—so that you can loosen up your lips and tongue. We'll start the lesson with them tomorrow.

"Now, I know you're familiar with it from choir, so let's do the siren."

He lifted his arm, the back of his hand facing her as he lowered it; finally, his palm showed; all the while, he performed the vocal exercise. Christine grinned then giggled at the sound coming from him. It seemed ridiculous to hear him make such noises. When he cued her, she mimicked him.

"Let it spin!" he called, reminding her of her choir director in this moment. When she accomplished it, he ordered, "Start from the top again and go all the way down. –Relax that jaw!" He sighed and complained, "We've got to get rid of that jaw—perhaps even today."

"I'll try."

"Try is negative; say you _will_."

She smiled at him and asserted, "I will."

"There. Now you've already got a better chance of accomplishing it. Watch yourself carefully, and _feel _it relax."

Not long after this, they moved onto glottis exercises. "For this one, the tongue goes to the back of the mouth but does not touch roof of mouth. Now, sing!"

She shifted her tongue as per his instruction then belatedly thought, _'What? He wants me to sing like this?' _She didn't dare protest, though, so when the piano started, so did she. Due to her sensitive gag reflex, she had to be extra careful about the placement of her tongue.

"Relax the jaw!" he cried. The music stopped, and Christine automatically tensed. "Christine, I realize that you're still new to this, but you are frustrating me."

She timidly put her fingers to her lips in place of biting or licking them before letting her hand drop. "I'm sorry. If it's any consolation, I'm frustrating myself."

He sighed but commanded, "Let's try again." There was a bit of improvement but not much, and Erik knew that it'd be quite a long time before she triumphed over this obstacle. It was particularly bad when she went for her high notes because she'd gotten used to tensing when she didn't need to. He fervently hoped that it wouldn't be too long before she learned how to relax.

Following the glottis exercise, she stuck her tongue all the way out and tried singing. Like before, he reminded her, "Long, not wide!" and added, "Feel like the sound is on the back of your tongue!"

Even though it was only the second day, she still hated the exercise. It made her jaw and her tongue ache. "I can't do anymore. My tongue hurts."

Easily going with this, Erik offered, "Here's another glottis exercise. You know how soldiers go 'Hut!'? Well, I want you to go, 'Hut!' then sing on 'Ah!'" He demonstrated. When she made a mistake, he corrected, "Don't breathe afterward, or it opens up again. Take the breath before. It should be: breath, hut-_ah, ah, ah, AH, ah, ah, ah_!" Christine nodded, and they resumed.

Not much later, Erik murmured, "We've got to get those cords adducted; otherwise, you'll make a little girl sound, and you want to sound like a woman, yes?" His pupil blushed but nodded. So, they did exercises to help her get in touch with her cords.

"Drink some water. Hydration is very important." While she did so, he declared, "I realize that you're probably very tired, but I want to try and do a bit of _'Caro Mio Ben'_." Christine nearly groaned but instead set her glass aside on its coaster with a small sigh. Rather than press the issue like he wanted to do or concede and let her rest, he ordered, "Open up your booklet. We'll take it from the top."

This time, instead of clearing her throat during the opening, Christine swallowed heavily. Noticing this, Erik smiled and thought sardonically, _'She can be taught!' _She opened her mouth to sing, and he abruptly stopped playing at the sound that came out, ready to kick something in frustration. "Christine," he began with a strained voice nearly devoid of patience, "what do you think was wrong with that?"

Christine laughed, and Erik mistook her discomfort as childish amusement with him. "I'm not laughing," he sharply said. "Why are you?"

The girl put a hand to her chest and admitted, "Sorry. I laugh—or smile—when I get nervous…or frustrated…or mad…or sad…or happy, for that matter." She grimaced at the long list of emotions. "I don't know why."

A bit remorseful for snapping, he softened his tone. "Well, try not to let your nerves get the better of you. Now…what do you think went wrong there?"

"My jaw," she mumbled, embarrassed that it was still plaguing her since Erik had been scolding her all lesson for it.

"Right. You're right, but don't mumble—even if you think that you're completely wrong. What else?"

Panicked, she tried to think of what else had sounded bad. She couldn't remember. Sensing this, Erik answered for her: "Your tone was too thin. Your vowels should be richer. Come! We'll speak the lyrics."

Erik spoke with great passion, which made her repetition sound pathetic. Soon, much to her embarrassment, he forced her to emulate his passion. It nearly made her giggle. "Now," he wondered, "about what do you think this song is?"

Christine peeked at the English translation on the page and ventured, "Lamenting a lost love?"

"Not quite. It's about longing to be with the one that you love more than anything else on this earth. It's about how your heart is being torn at not having them near. The words are simple yet eloquent enough. I want you to sing with that in mind; feel the words in your heart as you sing! Make me believe you! Even if you've never felt this way, do your best to imagine how it might feel."

Right in the middle of the song, the hour chimed on the clock. It distracted Christine, but her maestro kept going, dragging her along with him. When they finished, he mused, "Not bad. Not great, but not bad. You're still a bit self-conscious, but that'll go away with time. Also, you need to remember to connect. Even after I corrected you, you still slipped up. You really need to attack that _'Cessa crudel' _on the F."

He demonstrated the first syllable. Her eyes widened at the fact that he could hit it. "Pay attention to the dynamics. You're completely ignoring the crescendo: _**Il tuo fedel, so spiraognor. CESSA, crudel—CESSA**__! _Not only is that part labeled _forte_, there is an accent over it, which is why you need to sing it with everything you've 're going, _'__**Cessa**__…' _Doesn't that sound more like _mezzo-piano _to you?" She nodded. "And watch your breathing. I noticed that you like to breathe between _'langui' _and _'sce il cor' _or nearly turn blue trying to make it without breathing. That makes no sense considering that the words are _'languisce' _and _'il cor'. _They're supposed to connect. Pay attention to phrasing, please."

"Okay."

Trying not to laugh, he asked, "Are you aware that you lift your left eyebrow whenever you go for a note on E or above?"

"Uhh…no." She gave him a sheepish grin.

"I didn't think so. Watch yourself more carefully. And if you must raise your eyebrow when the notes begin to get higher, raise both of them."

She laughed but nodded.

"We'll work on it more tomorrow, and I'll also look for another one for you to start."

She remained quiet until he got up and turned off the recorder. When it was off, she relaxed, breathing a sigh of relief. Erik eyed her curiously, and she admitted, "The recording makes me a bit anxious when I remember it's there. I hate speaking on it because I hate my speaking voice."

Erik was flabbergasted at such a thing; he couldn't fathom why, leading him to ask her: "Why?"

"I don't know. I mean, not to sound conceited or anything, but I love listening to my singing voice; I just can't stand my speaking one. It's like…I don't know! I can't explain it. It's so…stupid," she finished lamely.

"Well, I don't think it's stupid, and it's part of your instrument, so you should learn to love it as well. Maybe once I'm done giving you speech lessons you'll actually enjoy hearing yourself talk."

Completely missing the fact that he was apparently planning on giving her more than just singing lessons, Christine snorted. "Fat chance of that happening."

Erik sighed and offered, "You never know." Recalling that she was surprisingly autonomous and curious about music, thus leading to her expanding her knowledge without a teacher, he inquired, "What were those songs that you showed to the woman from before?"

"Oh. Umm…hang on; I'll get them." She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, because she'd actually been planning on showing Erik the songs at the end of the lesson, anyway.

He smiled at the two. They were very wistful, romantic songs. "We'll start on _'O del mio amato ben' _tomorrow."

Christine gaped then regarded him with a furrowed brow. "I'm not used to this," she murmured, sounding a bit sad.

"Not used to what?"

"Having a vocal teacher. I've always wanted one."

Mrs. Valerius demanded from her spot on the couch, reminding them of her presence, "Why didn't you say anything sooner?"

Christine blinked, replying like it should have been obvious, "I didn't want to waste your money."

"Child, I would pay my life's savings to get you proper instruction."

It nearly got to her; it hit her heart, but she managed not to cry. "Thank you. I really appreciate it." Her tone lightened as she asked of Erik, "How much do you charge?"

"Twenty per hour."

Her brow furrowed again. "Stephanie was ready to charge thirty for a half-hour and forty for an hour. Why so cheap?"

"I'd do it for free. I'd do it for the love of your voice. I get a great sense of satisfaction from hearing you improve. Besides, I make plenty of money elsewhere, such as being your church organist."

"That's true…but it still makes me feel guilty."

He frowned. "It's useless feeling guilty. Why does the idea of money make you feel guilty?"

She shrugged, now feeling _helpless_ and guilty. "I don't know. My dad was the generous type; he'd always try to do things for me even when I knew he was stretching his finances. There were little instances, but then there were big ones. Like, one time he took me horseback riding. It was a very disappointing endeavor, unfortunately: they gave me a horse that was tired from being ridden by Boy Scouts or something, and all he wanted to do was eat! So, I sat there on him while he ate from his trough a little down the trail. My dad circled back and said, 'Not exactly what you had in mind, huh?' We laughed about it. ...I still remember that horse. He was black, and his name was Teddy—like 'teddy bear'. I was so upset at him!"

"Don't blame the horse; it's not his fault. Blame his stupid owners."

"Yeah!" she laughed. "And they didn't even give us any guidance; they just sent us out on our own."

He remarked, "You have a good vocabulary."

"I read—a _lot_. Like nobody's business! I've always been a bookworm. There are childhood pictures with me poring over some book."

Unfortunately, this left her open, and Mama Valerius did what she always did: tell details of how she'd overcome adversity. "It's especially remarkable because of her eyesight."

Pursing her lips, she shot her guardian a dirty look before smiling at Erik, who wondered, "Your eyesight? What about it?"

Christine opened her mouth, ready to dispel his curiosity with basic truths that were understatements. Yet again, Mama Valerius stepped in…and she cursed the woman for her loose tongue. It wasn't her story to tell! She had no right to be proud of her!

"She's very nearsighted, and she's legally blind in her left eye."

'_Nooo! Noo! Why? Damn it! No-ho! Ugh. Damn it. …Oh! Why?' _

Upon glancing at his new pupil, he found that she looked exasperated and even a bit irritable. He noted something that hadn't caught his attention before: her left eye was lazy, her eyelid drooping very slightly as the eye stared forward without true focus. One could only tell by paying close attention.

Her expression changed, her left eye opening a little more yet remaining lazy, when he asked, "What does 'legally blind' mean?"

She latched onto his forearm, doubling over with light laughter. "Oh! Thank you for asking!" Her eyebrows shot up as she beamed. "Everybody just assumes, 'You can't see out of one eye?' and I'm like, 'No! I can see out of it; I just can't _read _out of it,' so, really, I prefer just to say, 'I have really bad vision!'"

Mama Valerius scoffed, "Oh, if it were up to you, no one would ever know anything about how amazing you are!"

Though she wasn't prone to it, Christine actually _snorted _with great derision. She joked, "Oh, I'm _amazing_! Everybody listen to how lucky I am, because I feel the need to tell _everybody _I meet! No one does that! If I did that, I'd hate myself." Erik chortled while the blonde shook her head and sighed. "Well, as long as you know, I might as well explain a little more about my eyesight. Number one, I think it's why I'm so unobservant. Umm…number two, I have better eyesight in my right eye, but I'm still really nearsighted. I wear contacts; I used to wear glasses, but I really only wear them now if my eyes get irritated or if I'm lazy. It's so much easier to go to bed if you've been wearing glasses, but that's really the only advantage in my opinion. I like contacts so much better! …Anyway, umm…uhh…heh…uhh…" She'd quite easily lost her train of thought.

"Your eyesight?" Erik prodded helpfully.

"Yes! My eyesight! I don't usually wear a contact in my left eye, because it doesn't make that much of a difference—it helps but not that much. My right eye is my supplier. If I lost my eyesight in it, I'd be screwed. Apparently, I have more pronounced blood vessels in my right eye. —We took a retinal photograph at my last eye appointment."

Erik pointed out, "That's probably because it has to compensate for your left eye."

"Oh. Good point. The optometrist couldn't seem to figure that out. He seemed mystified."

"Isn't there a saying 'You can't see the forest for the trees'?"

She nodded, beaming. "Yeah. Anyway, umm…all you really need to know is that I have bad eyesight, but I make do. It's not a problem." She hated herself for it, but she conceded, "I have a bit of reduced peripheral vision." She groaned. "Ugh! I might as well tell you: I had ROP—Retinopathy of Prematurity—as a baby, so I nearly went blind, because my retinas were detaching. I had cryosurgery to save my eyesight; it's why my eyesight is…unequal. It's also why I have reduced peripheral vision."

He nodded, quite fascinated. He'd always had a fascination with medical procedures. "There are bound to be complications with premature birth."

Mama Valerius opened her mouth to divulge more medical history, but Christine randomly cried, "You know what? I never finished what I was saying before, about my dad."

A bit bewildered at the abrupt change, Erik gestured for her to continue.

"The summer after seventh grade, he took me to Disneyland. He took me a lot of places that summer: Disneyland, SeaWorld, Denver, and then to Sweden. We spent the rest of the summer there, in Stockholm and Uppsala. It must have been around the time that he got diagnosed. I have pictures from then, and his eyes look so sad." She pursed her lips, her brow furrowing as her eyes stung. She'd gone from the frying pan into the fire. "He apologized to me because there was one thing that he and I never got to do…and he _apologized _for it." She laughed and shook her head, her heart aching. "Dumb…"

Craving this intimate knowledge, Erik wondered, "What was that one thing?"

"Take me to a live opera." She looked down, her eyes wet as she cleared her throat. When she blinked, a tear slipped out. She rubbed at her eyes, careful not to dislodge her contact, and huffed. "He said that he wanted to take me when I was sixteen, as a Sweet Sixteen gift, and because I'd be older and appreciate—or understand—it better. We were either going to see it at the L.A. Opera or San Diego. Since his diagnosis, he wanted to take me anyway, but he got sicker and was in the hospital almost all the time; he couldn't travel." Sensing Mama Valerius' grievances with being out of the loop, Christine offered, "I haven't really wanted to go to an opera since then, so I've never said anything."

"I understand," she murmured. "I wouldn't have felt right taking you, anyway. I thought about surprising you with tickets, but I just could never do it."

Christine smiled and shrugged. "Maybe I'll get the courage to go someday."

"Maybe," Mama Valerius agreed.

She paused as something crucial dawned on her: Christine had been in counseling when her father died, but she never opened up. The most she'd say was that she missed him, but she remained cheerful while talking to the counselor. She made herself seem well-adjusted. After a year of no progress, she stopped making Christine go. Now, all of a sudden, all of these pent-up thoughts, emotions, and stories came out of her, spoken to this strange yet gifted man. It made the elder female nervous. She couldn't understand what it was that caused such a change.

What made him so special? What made him different from the counselor, from Christine's friends, from _her_? Why did she open up to him when it seemed that this man barely even associated with people? He never spoke to anyone in the congregation (though no one had tried to approach him as of yet); he barely even spoke with Father Norris. The only person he spoke to was Christine. It made her wonder if Erik even had anyone else to talk to in the world. Though the thought did make her pity him a little, she was more concerned for Christine. If Christine was the only one that he could talk to, it wasn't much of a stretch to think that he'd become obsessed with her. The thought disturbed her greatly.

Mama Valerius believed that Erik's true nature was something much colder, much crueler. He had the voice of an angel, but he hid his face. The world was cruel, which must have meant that bad things happened to him because of whatever deformity he had. With his musical prowess, he didn't even seem human.

The mere sight of him chilled her to the bone. What lay behind the mask? What was in the depths of his soul? Did he think like other men? Did he lust like other men? Did he dream like other men? Was he even human, or had the world beaten that out of him? Was he capable of love? Was he capable of selfless kindness?

She didn't consider his offer to teach Christine for so little selfless; she was convinced that he had ulterior motives. She sensed that he wanted to get closer to her like someone shivering cold wants to huddle up near a fire; it was obvious. Christine was such a sweet girl that many individuals gravitated toward her. She was kind to everyone, so many people liked her. She only had a few friends, because she'd always been quite introverted, but they were all close and cared deeply for one another. She had her flaws, just like anyone else, but she was a good girl, made stronger by life's challenges yet humbled by them. She knew how precious life was and how suddenly it could be extinguished.

Mama Valerius couldn't particularly blame Erik for being drawn in by her cheerfulness, but that didn't mean that she had to like it. She still didn't trust him.

Oddly nervous to do so, Erik offered, "I know that you said that you didn't want me to play the violin for you, but I brought this," he held up a clear jewel case with a burned disc inside, "so that you might have the opportunity to get to know me better." He'd forgotten about it the day before once they got sucked into the vocal lesson.

Mrs. Valerius urged, "Put it in. I'd like to hear it." Maybe if she heard his violin playing—perhaps if it were a dark, passionate piece—she could distinguish what type of man he was. He obviously poured his soul into his music, so what better way to see the real him?

As Christine went to put it in the CD player, Erik confessed, "It's actually a DVD. It's a very rare recording. It's from when I performed my final year in Juilliard. I performed with the orchestra; I was the soloist."

Her curiosity rocked her. It burned so strongly that she felt a bit dizzy. She nodded and moved over to the DVD player.

It started with the customary introductions. It was very hard to tell, but there were subtle differences in Erik that revealed that he was almost twenty years younger—such as his slimmer jaw and his eyes. Those eyes were guarded but still had hope in them, whereas the current man seemed almost completely devoid of hope.

The younger Erik took a bow before taking his stance, bringing his violin to his shoulder, his chin to the rest on it. Right before he and the orchestra tuned, words appeared in the bottom corner:

_Mendelssohn _

_Violin Concerto in E Minor_

_Op. 64 _

Erik warned, "It's a bit long—about half an hour."

Christine said nothing, but the other woman replied, eager despite herself, "I don't mind. I adore the violin. I'm quite disappointed that Christine no longer plays."

"Perhaps watching this might interest her again." He looked to Christine's back as he urged, "I'd be happy to teach you."

She moved back onto the couch even though this made it harder for her to see things in detail and watched the screen with pursed lips. "I'll think about it."

From the very first note, her breath caught in her throat. Her world came to a standstill. She managed to restart the necessary function of breathing, but her breaths were shallow at best as she hungrily watched the skillful movement of his left hand and the bowing of his right. Somehow, she found herself on her knees, on the floor, right in front of the TV, staring intently at the figure on the screen, still barely breathing. She shifted so that she sat with her legs folded comfortably before her, a feat made awkward by the skirt of her dress. She tucked it around her knees to avoid revealing skin. Her hands rested in her lap. She rarely blinked.

It got to the point where it looked like the video was on fast-forward; it looked entirely unreal. For the duration of the concerto, she sat the same way: limp, barely breathing, staring fixatedly at Erik's performance. It thoroughly mesmerized her. Her favorite movement was the first one, so, when it ended, she lost some of the intensity of her stare, but she still enjoyed the rest. When it all ended, she felt at a loss; she didn't know what to do with herself or what she should say.

Her voice didn't want to work; he'd made her speechless. Finally, she got out, "You're really good. …You're breathtaking—literally! You stole my breath from the first note. Your playing's perfection!" After much hesitation, she confessed, "Sometimes, I think that I might hate the violin, like I want to smash one…" Her left eye twitched at the reminder. "…but I know that that's not what's really in my heart. It's only because I miss my dad. When I hear music like this, I want to…curl up and listen to it forever. It makes me forget that it hurts to play. I have to discover it again for myself when I go to play, which probably makes it more painful."

He urged, "It doesn't have to hurt all the time."

"It doesn't hurt all the time…but often enough that I don't want to play."

He wouldn't stand for her giving up on his favorite instrument since it was clearly hers as well. "I'm going to teach you violin in conjunction with everything else."

Christine shook her head. She got terse again. "Thank you, but I don't want to."

"Bullshit."

Gaping, her eyebrows stuck up high, she turned to regard him. "Excuse me?" She couldn't believe her ears.

"Bullshit," he repeated, surprised to find himself so impassioned. More words than he'd ever spoken in his life poured from him. "You're just scared. You're stuck, and you're scared. By abandoning the violin, you don't have to grow up. You don't have to face your grief; you can go on pretending that you're fine, with your pretty smiles and your laughter. You're not even as eager to sing as I know that you can be. You're holding back. Your heart's on lockdown. I know: I've been there. I'm still there.

"But you know what? Music is the one thing that has kept me going, and I think it will help you, too. I'm not going to let you waste your talent; I'm not going to let you stay stuck at this level of immaturity. You're going to have to pull yourself up and stand on your own two feet, because I refuse to baby you. It's time that you start growing up! You're not a little girl anymore, and I'm not going to treat you as one. I won't give you more than you can handle, but I will expect you to rise up and meet the standards that I set for you."

Not wanting to admit that he was right, Christine challenged, "What if I decide that I don't want you as my teacher anymore?"

"It's too late for that," he intoned, his eyes making her shiver. She got goose bumps, and even her scalp tingled. She swallowed in spite of her tight throat.

Mama Valerius had a newfound respect for Erik. He spoke bluntly, dissecting her charge, forcing her to take a good look at herself. She almost felt ready to trust him; however, there were still some doubts. Everyone had their weaknesses; everyone had that little child in them. She didn't know if that child in Erik were sad and lonely or bitter and ready to lash out at everyone. Until she could figure it out, she'd stick with the two, guarding Christine for as long as possible. She wouldn't let Christine be around someone who couldn't control his temper.

Erik grinned when the woman he considered his adversary agreed, "I'm not going to let you quit, Christine. I don't want you to lose your sweetness, but you do need to face some things."

Christine huffed, complaining, "I think I liked it better when you two were on opposite sides."

Erik chuckled. "Well, I happen to enjoy the fact that we've come to an agreement." He checked his watch. "We'll save any further lessons until tomorrow. I think, tomorrow, I shall start you on languages as well. It will fit in nicely with learning _'O del mio amato ben'_. That's where we'll start with learning Italian. Preferably, once we really get going, I'd like you to learn one song per language: one for French, one for Italian, and one for German."

Her jaw dropped. "You want me learning three songs at a time?" She chose not to divulge that she thought that German wasn't a very attractive language. Then again, some people thought French was ugly, but she loved it. Other people (such as Meg) made fun of Swedish, so she had no right to judge. She hoped that it would grow on her, because she'd apparently have no choice in the matter: Erik was going to teach it to her no matter what.

"Eventually, yes; plus, we'll be going through plays to work on your acting. I think I might even teach you Latin. It would certainly help you with the languages—including English."

Christine complained with a grimace, "That sounds like a lot of work."

"Being an opera singer requires a great amount of dedication. As you get older, you'll find that your workload will increase, so we'll work our way up gradually." He proposed, "It sounds to me like this dream of yours is very vague, like you've never actually considered doing it—and now that you have the means to do it, you're intimidated."

She confessed, "I never thought that I'd be able to…."

"Why?"

She really didn't want to admit to her physical limitations (any more than she already had), so she supplied, "Because…I'm short, and my breathing's awful."

"We'll work on your breathing—and being short doesn't matter."

She felt nauseated as she forced herself to confess, "I have a bit of a reactive airway." Triggered psychologically by the mention, a light cough popped from her…followed by four more. "Heh. See?"

"Hmm. I do. It might be due to your speaking voice irritating your cords, but it's probably due to your premature birth. We'll find a way to work around it or through it. There must be some way to get past it. Perhaps an inhaler would help; it could open up your airways. We could find a long-lasting one. I'm sure that we could procure one that would last long enough to get you through an opera."

Her eyes threatened to produce tears, so she huffed instead. "Erik, stop being so…so thoughtful!" She cracked a smile. "It depresses me." She begged herself not to cry, thinking that she might manage not to if she kept on smiling. It didn't work: she burst into tears, shaking her head as the heels of her palms dug into her eyes (regardless of her contact). Finally, she straightened her head and wiped at her cheeks. "Oh, I'm such a crybaby!"

Mama Valerius insisted, "You're a sensitive soul—very gentle." It made Christine smile.

"Now that that's over with," Erik half-teased, "there are no excuses. Being short is certainly no excuse; in fact, I think it will make you more famous, because people will be astounded that such a voice can come from such a tiny person. There might be some roles in which you would not fit, but many of the roles that would suit your voice would also suit your body type." Something hit him: "You said that your father died of lung cancer. Was he a smoker?"

Christine smiled ruefully, admitting, "Unfortunately, yes."

He now had just a little less respect for Mr. Daaé. His daughter had been born with sensitive lungs, yet he smoked?

As if sensing Erik's thought process, Christine defended her father by saying, "He never smoked in the house or the apartment—or in the car."

"Ever heard of secondhand smoke? It can be carried on your clothes, in upholstery; it can even soak into the walls. He may not have smoked in your home, but if he smoked near enough it could have infiltrated it. Every time you hugged him, you inhaled some of it, and you got some on your own clothes. Did his car smell of smoke?"

Her nose crinkled, and she nodded.

"Did he smoke while you two were outside?"

"Yeah. I guess he figured that the wind would carry it off." She laughed as she confessed, "Sometimes, I would do that whole unsubtle thing where I'd cough a little on purpose. Apparently, it was too subtle…or maybe he just didn't want to face it."

Erik gently inquired, "Did you ever try to talk to him about it?"

"Of course. I told him how sad it made me that he chose to smoke, how I didn't like it when he smoked. I guess it just wasn't enough; I guess the addiction was stronger than his love for me." Mama Valerius chided her, but she insisted, "Well, it's true! I know that he loved me, but he never could quit. By the time he felt the consequences, it was too late." She smiled sadly, and it broke Erik's heart. She tried so hard to stay upbeat that it was painful.

Returning to the earlier thread of conversation, he stated, "I have a friend who's a doctor—a pediatrician, even. I'll have him write a prescription for you, for an inhaler."

"Thank you. I'm sure that it will really help."

Quite softened (and of the mind that she should get to know her "enemy"), Mama Valerius suggested, "Would you like to stay for dinner, Erik?" Christine beamed, eager for this chance, this extended time for interaction. She wanted to talk to him outside of their lessons; she wanted to feel like they were friends instead of just mentor and protégée. If at all possible, she liked being friends with everyone. She generally liked people.

He had his misgivings, but he ultimately agreed to it. He discovered that the Valerius household had a variety of help, including a cook. The maid from before served him his food and drink. She seemed anxious to help Christine, but she was only allowed to pour water for her; the blonde got the rest, only asking that a dish be passed closer to her. Her need for independence made him smile.

'_She really doesn't like luxury, does she?' _

If it weren't for his mentor, he'd be quite clueless about dining etiquette; thanks to him, he managed to dig into his reserves and produce impeccable manners. Years of getting scolded over his etiquette (or lack thereof) finally paid off.

While he ate, he took note of Christine's eating habits. She seemed to want to rest her elbows on the table, and her posture was awful. She managed to keep her right hand in her lap when it wasn't in use. Since she was left-handed, she rarely used her right hand. She got scolded by her guardian to sit up straight. He nearly barked with laughter at the look of irritation that crossed Christine's face—unseen by the other woman, who attended to sprinkling her salad with pepper.

The fancy dishware made him uncomfortable. It brought back bad memories of his mother, who had been a stickler for status and manners. He'd never been allowed to eat at the nicely set table; he always ate in the kitchen or up in his "room"—the attic. He almost never got any of the good food; if he did, the portions were infinitesimal. Dessert was a foreign concept, one that he hadn't discovered until moving in with his new guardian. He wasn't fond of dessert ever since he gorged himself on it and, consequently, vomited from it.

To the whole town, the woman who birthed him pretended that she didn't have a son. In fact, she gained sympathy by telling everyone that he was stillborn. Thus, he'd never been allowed outside. Occasionally, he sneaked out when it was dark out, but he never went beyond the front yard. A young child, he was afraid of people seeing him.

His mother would fly into rages if she saw him without his mask.

One time, she vomited on the floor then ordered him to clean it up. The sympathetic maid tried to help and got slapped for it. He rather liked the maid serving him currently, pouring more water; she reminded him of the nice one. They were even both brunette. It was too bad that the other had feared getting fired and, therefore, avoided talking to him.

Another time, his mother grabbed the nearest object—an unlit candlestick—and beat him with it until he ran back up to the attic. He could still see her brown eyes flashing, her black locks swaying with the ferocity of her movement. She was a beautiful woman, but all he saw when he looked at her was ice. Her smile was so fake; her laughter was like nails on chalkboard to him, though it was pleasant to anyone else who heard it. Not like Christine…so unlike Christine… Christine was beautiful inside and out. Christine was gentle with a laugh that made him want to fly. Christine was never angry. Christine was perfect.

He startled when Mrs. Valerius hazarded, "So, Erik, I take it from your accent that you're French?"

Cursing that he should have guessed this was coming, he replied, "Yes."

"How long did you live in France?"

He decided that it'd make it easier if he focused on Christine while answering—as if he were responding to her questions. "Until I was fourteen. That's when I met the man that would become my mentor."

"And he's your doctor friend?"

"Yes," he forced out. He was beginning to feel nauseated.

Humming thoughtfully, Mrs. Valerius pressed, "So, before you met him, what was your life like?"

"Not as nice."

"What are your parents like?"

He smirked. "Dead." At the perturbed look on Christine's face, he added, "Of natural causes. I never knew my father, but I doubt that he's alive. I've never bothered to look him up. My mother instilled it into me that he left her because of me."

Christine didn't know how to deal with all this information, so she furrowed her brow sympathetically and said, "That's awful. I'm sorry."

"That's all right. It's not your fault."

She countered, "It's not yours either."

Erik tightened his jaw. "I wouldn't be so sure of that."

Quite clueless about how he must have had to live, Mrs. Valerius asked, "So, how is it that you got to go off with your mentor when you were fourteen? Wouldn't your mother have had to sign you away?"

Wry chortles tore from him. "It wasn't a problem." When it seemed that she would press more, he said, "Madame, pardon me, but I don't think that this is very appropriate dinner conversation. It's getting a little too personal for my taste." If he had to endure any more of it, he'd snap, and he didn't want Christine seeing his anger. She'd probably hate him for it.

"I'd just like to get to know you since you'll be spending so much time tutoring Christine. I don't think that that's too much to ask."

He countered with, "How is—or was—your relationship with your parents? Were you and your husband happily married? Why didn't you ever have children of your own? Did you ever feel awkward about having the Daaé family in your home?"

"That—!" she began.

"…is personal?" he finished. She pursed her lips, and he grinned in triumph. "My point exactly."

"It's very suspicious if you have to _hide _your past."

He hedged, "I'm not hiding it; I just prefer not to spoil a lovely dinner with it."

Feeling quite sorry for her new teacher, Christine said, "I don't much feel like hearing it right now, anyway. I like to enjoy my meals in quiet."

"I know," Mama Valerius groused. "It's why I never get to hear much about your day. You're not much of a talker."

Erik forced his eyes to his plate, sucking back laughter that nearly suffocated him. All he'd ever really seen of Christine was her talkative side. To him, she didn't seem very shy at all. Although, that wasn't quite true: he'd seen glimpses of her quiet, introverted self during their lessons.

Christine shrugged and mumbled, "I don't like talking while I'm eating. My food gets cold quicker, and I don't always have a lot to say. If I have anything interesting to mention, I tell you about it—like choir functions or when I plan on hanging out with friends. Otherwise, I don't have much to say. I'm sure you don't care about every little detail of my life. If you want, I could tell you every little thing that _I _find interesting—such as 'I saw a movie that I really liked!' or 'I've found a new song that I love!' The thing is…I don't think it'd interest you, so I don't bore you with it."

"Well, I would appreciate _some _conversation between us during dinner."

Her shoulders rose again. "I'm not much of a conversationalist when I'm eating—just like I prefer staying quiet when I'm trying to listen to music or when I'm watching something—or reading something. It's not meant as an offense to you; it's just that I'm really that boring; I don't usually have much to discuss."

Erik almost said, 'I'd listen to every word out of your mouth no matter what it was!' but kept it locked away. He suggested, "You could always fill the silence with music."

Christine lit up, gushing, "That's a great idea! I wish we'd thought of it sooner. I hate awkward silences."

He wondered, "What did you do when you and your father ate dinner together—when you were living alone?"

She laughed. "It wasn't awkward. We were fine with the silence. We talked more freely—" Erik gathered that this was code for 'He actually cared to listen to every little thing' "—and we were more comfortable with silence. We were very similar. Both he and I are left-handed. He used to call me his 'Lefty Buddy'." She giggled. "He was a very goofy man. Oh, and because I love Disney, if I ever told him that, he'd go 'Ah-hyuck!' or 'Gawwrsh'." She giggled anew, doubling over a bit. "I sound retarded when I do it, but he was good at impersonations. He was always very silly and easygoing…but not when he played.

"When he played, when he _composed_, it was like he transcended our little apartment. He got very serious, but he always kept one ear to the wall—so to speak—to attend to me. If I wandered into the room, and he noticed me, he'd usually stop what he was doing, so I'd have to beg him to keep going. He almost always shifted from composing to playing songs that I liked.

"Generally, though, I'm such a quiet person that I don't make much noise when I walk, so I end up sneaking up on people and startling them without meaning to. Because I was so quiet, I could stand in the doorway, and he wouldn't even notice me most of the time. I'd sit on the floor and just…stare at him. Heh. Meg calls me a creeper, and she's probably right." She guffawed. "I can't help it, though. I love the violin…" She swallowed and shut her eyes, her words hitting her heart. "But as much as I love it, I can't play it anymore, and I don't particularly want to."

Erik noted that her voice got harsh at the end—a clear warning sign that he better not push her into it. He liked the challenge, but he also feared the consequences. Yes, he wanted to see Christine angry…but not at him. He tried to think of how best to phrase what he wanted to say. "That's understandable…but I think you'll benefit from working past it."

She sighed. "I probably would, but I'm not at that point yet." Her tone sharpened as she stated, "If I ever feel even the _slightest _inclination to play again, you'll be the first to know." She stabbed at a piece of lettuce in her salad and occupied her mouth with chewing so that she wouldn't have to speak anymore.

He smiled. Her anger was so subtle—like thorns on the stem of a rose. She was sweet and pretty, but, underneath, she had enough bite to prick and possibly even draw blood. It quite amused him, but a little part of him feared her anger. Recalling that she mentioned that she was "physically incapable of holding onto negative emotions," he got quite giddy. Even if she did get angry with him, she would probably forgive him. She was the forgiving type; he could sense it.

Compared to her, his anger was more like a raging inferno that left things to ashes. She probably felt remorse instantly for any ill sentiments; he rarely felt remorse. If someone were stupid enough to provoke him, that was their own damn fault; they'd better be willing to suffer the consequences. The only person that he held back on was his mentor—and that was only because the man had ingratiated himself by helping him out. With Christine, he never wanted to be angry—not even the slightest bit. He considered any anger that he felt was actually just frustration. He couldn't imagine getting angry with her. How could anyone get angry with someone who was always sweet and considerate? It was like hating someone who gave you a present. It didn't make any sense.

Dessert rolled around, and he refused it, claiming that he was full. Christine, however, eagerly took some of the chocolate pudding. Just like with dinner, she delicately patted at her mouth with her napkin to erase any evidence of food that managed to stain her lips. He noted that the napkin always returned to her lap, where her right hand rested as well. Though the aspect of her posture hadn't improved with training, simple etiquette must have soaked in from the other woman's instruction. She still had to fight the temptation of resting her arm against the table, but, overall, she seemed to do well with the refinement around her.

Back to being happy (partially aided by the yummy dessert), Christine chattered with her dining companions about how she planned to hang out with Meg the following afternoon.

Erik surmised, "So, I take it that you don't want a lesson, then?"

It hadn't even occurred to her. "Oh! …Oh." She wilted a little. "We planned this a few days ago. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I understand perfectly. You already made plans before we officially got started. I'd be disappointed if you were the type of person to flake and cancel plans with a friend."

Grinning, Christine admitted, "I hate flakes—Meg does, too. We were just discussing this the last time that we hung out. We both hate waiting around for anything, so we hate when people are late. We hate arriving late somewhere; we're very punctual people. I always try to get somewhere at least fifteen minutes early. If I'm not familiar with the area, I like to get there even earlier so that I have time to wander around and find where I need to be—and yes: I need to wander. I'm terrible with directions, so don't ever ask me where anything is!"

He emitted a small noise of amusement. "Duly noted."

"I don't like waiting, but I'm patient. I'll wait forever if I think that someone will actually show up—even if it's, like…an hour. As long as I have a book or my iPod, I don't mind. If I don't, I get bored."

If it weren't for his mask, his eyebrows would rise. "An hour?"

She grinned sheepishly. "I always give people chances, and I'm a diehard optimist. That being said, I don't always wait that long; I usually keep it to half an hour or forty-five minutes. It helps if I can get ahold of someone to figure out if they're coming or not. If they claim that they are, I'll wait forever. I'm a loser like that."

"No comment." He grinned when she gaped at him amidst her laughter.

"You…" she started, pursing her lips in cute frustration. "You're not very nice, are you?"

"Not particularly, no. …You're not a loser, though; you're just too kind. I only meant to tease you."

"I know! …That was my way of teasing you back." She chuckled uneasily. They had a lot to learn about each other.

Mama Valerius offered up, "Well, this has been enlightening, but I think it's best if we wind things down."

Erik mused, _'Not very subtle, is she?' _and smiled to himself because of it. "I was just about to say the same. I should get going." Standing even though the females were still seated, he murmured, "Thank you for dinner. It was delicious."

Christine hastened to stand; her napkin fell to the floor. "I'll walk you to the door!"

When they got there, she cried, "Oh! Your DVD!" She almost rushed off, but Erik caught her gently by the hand. She got goose bumps—particularly because of how cold his hand was.

"It's yours to keep. I made a copy of it just for you."

His heart melted as she grinned at him, squeezing his hand. "Thanks. I'll probably watch it over and over. I have a new favorite concerto. It even beats out Vivaldi's 'Concerto in A Minor'."

'_Oh, I think I just fell in love…' _

"Maybe we could play it together sometime."

He claimed victory on the inside when she cheerfully conceded without thought, "Maybe!" As hard as she fought it, he _would _win; he'd draw her back in.

His thoughts short-circuited when she hugged him. She even gave him a squeeze and went, "Mmm! Have a good night!" very cutely. He practically twitched at the overload of affection shooting through his heart. He somehow managed not to jerk out of the embrace. Pulling back as Christine withdrew first, he nodded instead of saying, 'You, too!' In fact, he left without a word, still reeling.

Back home and all dressed down, he curled up in bed and recalled the sensation of this particular embrace, pretending that she lay next to him, snuggling up against him, all the while daring to hope that, in a few years, he could make her his.

'_We just have to wait.' _He might only wait until she graduated high school. She'd be eighteen and out of high school, eliminating some of the stigma of their relationship.

Just thinking of being in a _relationship_ made him giggle like a little boy. Contrarily, the more he thought about it, the more the dark side of his heart declared death on anyone who would stand in his way. He _would _have her, and no one could stand in his way—not even Christine herself. She had to know that they were meant to be together. If she didn't, she'd find out soon enough in a couple of years.

He fell asleep grinning to himself, the occasional cackle slipping from him. She'd be his. She'd be his no matter what.

* * *

**A/N: Yay! Click-click: BOOM! Crazy Erik! How fun it will be to have him fluctuate! Hehehe! **

**Random anecdote time! **

**My mom likes to take ballet class in the L.A. area despite the LONG commute. Recently, she was in class and apparently… "Emmy Rossum was in class!" 0.o**

"**What?" **

"**Emmy Rossum was in class." **

**She talked to her companion at the front desk, who had told her, "That chick from **_**Phantom of the Opera **_**is here." **

**My mom asked, "Emmy Rossum?" and he said, "Yeah!" and showed her the sign-in sheet. **

**Oddly, I'm still inclined to disbelieve. I asked her if she saw her, and my mom went, "Well, I wasn't in the mood to be all looky-looky, but I saw her a little." **

"**How was she?" lol. Yeah, I asked that. I was curious as to how good a dancer she is. **

"**Her hips were kind-of wide." I discreetly rolled my eyes – my mom's in her fifties and is always very judgmental ((cough))jealous!((cough)) of younger dancers. Apparently, Emmy had her hair in a ponytail, and she took more of a beginning/ intermediate level adult class. That's all my mom got out of it. **

**I asked my mom if she got an autograph. She didn't. She didn't even take a picture (although that would have been annoying/ rude). Was she really there? I don't know. I have no proof. **

**My mom meets these famous people while taking ballet, and she doesn't think to ask for autographs. For instance, she keeps dancing with the girl who played Jody in **_**Center Stage**_**. No autographs or pictures. My mom's dumb like that. **

**Anyway, just thought I'd share! **

**Please review! **

**: D **

**Kagome-chan **


	7. Consideration

Chapter Seven: Consideration

Christine stood in the parking lot of Meg's apartment complex, trying to remember where she had to go to get into the building so that she could take the elevator up to the third floor. She had lived in the complex for years yet still got lost. It was ridiculous.

She saw a breezeway, so she went there, leaving the parking lot behind her. There were glass doors to her left and right and the familiar, open yard before her, leading out to the street since the apartment complex was pretty much on the corner. A gas station occupied the literal definition of "on the corner". Cars rushed by loudly since the two streets that crossed were busy ones.

Thankfully, she recalled that it was to the right at this point. Soon, she found the elevator. "Okay, good. I'm not gonna get horribly lost." She pressed the button for the third floor and watched the sign over the doors light up. She always did love lights.

She stepped off the elevator and couldn't remember if she was supposed to go left or right from it. She sighed. "Spoke too soon." To her horror, she couldn't even remember what the apartment number was. Thus, she wandered off a bit, stepping down the hall just a foot or two. Suddenly, she paused. For some reason, she sensed that 301 might be Meg's. She was just about to knock when she heard violin playing. Her hand fell as she grinned. Whoever it was played a slow but graceful piece. She wasn't familiar with it, but it was beautiful.

Giggling on the inside at her near mistake, she pulled out her phone to text Meg and confess that she was lost. The violin playing distracted her, causing her to take even longer than she normally did with her text message. She didn't text much—only when it came to Meg, because Meg hated talking on the phone.

Christine felt like an idiot when the door to 302 opened with Meg poking out her head. Choking on giggles at the look that Meg gave her (raised eyebrows with the question of 'Really?' in her brown eyes), she swiftly entered the apartment, taking off her white shoes since the Giry women liked to keep their carpet clean. She walked along in her socks, glancing at the kitchen as she passed it. She was rather thirsty, but she wouldn't ask for a drink just yet. She'd wait until she set her bag down and then follow Meg into the kitchen—well, _near _the kitchen. It was too tiny for even _two _people to stand comfortably together.

"Oh!" the other teen belatedly realized. "Do you want a drink or something?"

"Umm, yeah, actually."

The resident of the apartment went to the fridge. "What do you want? We've got water, grape juice, milk, some weird mango juice that my mom likes, Cran-Apple, VitaminWater, and soda."

Well aware that the dancers used VitaminWater to power through all their dancing, Christine supplied, "Water, please." She loved the flavored water, but she didn't want to deprive the pair of them. Meg got a tall glass and emptied some of the water from the spigot in the fridge.

"Here."

"Thanks." Cupping it, she wandered into the living room, staring at the wall as if she might suddenly develop X-ray vision. "Who lives there?"

Meg rolled her eyes. "A creep, that's who!"

"Their violin is amazing…"

The dark-haired girl scoffed, "You would! I tell you that the guy's a creep, and you focus on his music. Psh!"

Grinning helplessly, Christine shrugged. "Well, I'm just saying: it _is _amazing. His intonation is perfect. …It reminds me of my new teacher, actually." She frowned then shook her head. There was no way that Erik lived in an apartment complex. He was too sophisticated for that. He must live in a grand house somewhere, with gardens and lots of space for his beautiful music to ring out through. He'd have the type of house like hers: perfect for acoustics but a bit intimidating to be in.

"Oh, yeah!" Meg cried. "How's that workin' out, by the way?"

"Great! I've only had two lessons with him, but I already feel like I've accomplished so much! It's awesome!"

Meg ignorantly wondered, "What about that other chick? The one that you wouldn't shut up about?"

"Oh, she was a lovely woman but an awful teacher. She didn't even know where Middle C was on the keyboard!"

She was a dancer and not a musician, so this meant nothing to her. She shrugged. "Is having an older _guy_ really better? I thought you wanted a soprano for a teacher—you know, someone like you."

"He knows his stuff. I feel so comfortable around him. –I mean, I don't yet, because I'm still kind-of shy around him, but I know that I will." The violin playing continued to distract her.

"Hmm." Meg nodded, uncaring about the subject. "That's cool." She didn't know what else to say. "So, what do you want to do?"

Christine mused, "Well, my driver already took off, and you don't have your license yet, so maybe we should stay here and hang out."

"Okay." Meg shrugged. "We can watch my dance show DVDs. –You don't mind, do you?"

The blonde quickly shook her head. "No! Not at all! I love watching you dance! You're so beautiful when you dance. You take my breath away. You make my heart melt. I could watch your stuff all day."

Meg beamed and went to stick the cheap DVD of one of her school shows in the machine. Despite taking a year or two of ballet when she was younger, Christine knew practically nothing about dance; however, she was always very supportive. It's what Meg liked best about her.

* * *

Erik put his violin in its case, which sat on his bed in the living room, and moved it and himself into his music room. He liked to play the violin in the living room because this other room was rather cluttered. Only when he wanted to record it did he play it in the music room.

He'd turned what should have been a bedroom into a place to house all of his equipment: a desk with his two computers; his laser printer; his black keyboard that he could use headphones on or hook into an amp; his recording equipment, including a microphone like those seen in most recording studios. There was a table that housed his instruments; he set his violin in its place amongst his guitar and his flute. Typically, he kept this room locked (and with some slight booby traps) when he left the apartment. He always used the deadbolt, but, in the event that someone broke in, he didn't want them stealing his most expensive stuff, the things that helped him create his life's work.

Just as he was about to play back one of his compositions, he heard pop music blare through the thin wall. His neighbor was watching her dance shows again. He pounded on the wall to signal that he wanted her to turn down the volume.

Christine jumped at the sudden thumping; her hand went to her racing heart. She was incredibly sensitive to sound, so anything sudden or loud always shocked her. She was even a little shaky.

Meg pounded back, shouting, "BITE ME, HERMIT!"

Christine clapped her hand over her mouth, choking back giggles. "That's not very nice," she chided. Still, it was hilarious.

Erik paused. Had he heard correctly, or was he imagining things? He could have sworn that he'd heard Christine's voice on the other side of the wall, but it had been faint; he hadn't heard what was said. It made him wish that he knew his neighbor's name. All he knew was that she typically sported dance gear—from her clothes to her ridiculously heavy, black duffle that constituted her dance bag. There were very few times that he saw her, which meant even fewer times that he saw her leaving the apartment like a normal person: clothes instead of her tights or sweats; hair styled instead of slicked back into a bun. She almost always had her windbreaker on.

Thinking on her jacket jogged his memory: there was something embroidered on the front, because it was a jacket from her school dance team. What was it? He grinned when the image burst into his brain:

_Meg _

_Lieutenant_

Christine mentioned that she'd be visiting her friend Meg, and his neighbor was a dancer named Meg, so it made perfect sense that she might be over.

No longer caring about his music in this moment, he set to eavesdropping on the conversation on the other side of the wall. The more he heard, the more his heartbeat quickened.

Meg scoffed, complaining, "So, _he _can be all loud with his violin, and his flute, and his guitar, but I'm not allowed to get back at him?"

"Maybe you could try to work out a schedule or something—find a way to be considerate of each other."

"He has _all damn day _to play his instruments while I'm gone at school, so why does he have to wait or play _more _through the night? That's just rude!" She rounded on the wall, shouting, "YOU'RE AN ASS!" She frowned, noting, "Hm. Normally, he yells something back—usually in French." At Christine's choked-back laughter, she questioned, "What? What's with that grin?"

"Nothing. …Odd coincidence." There weren't too many French people in L.A., were there? "Do you ever hear him play piano?"

"I don't know. Sometimes, I guess. Why?"

She nonchalantly replied, "Just curious." She had a suspicion that it might be Erik, but she didn't want to crush her hopes that he lived somewhere nicer.

Erik frowned as Christine lightly inquired, "So, he's a creep?" It stung quite a bit.

Meg replied, "Oh, yeah! Totally creepy! He doesn't say a word, and his eyes give me chills. I _swear _they glow in the dark—like a cat's! I ran into him when I went to check the mail at night one time—after I got back from practice. That's when it seemed like his eyes flashed gold—like, they caught the light or something. It was super creepy. I had goose bumps for the rest of the night, I swear!" She tacked on, "One time, he held the elevator for me—'cause I had all my shit with me, and you know how heavy my dance bag is. Most awkward moment of my life!"

Christine half-joked, "At least he held the elevator for you."

Set on her rant, Meg ignored this and complained, "Sometimes, he listens to opera—most of the time, though, I think he listens to it with headphones."

A bit affronted, the blonde wondered, "What's wrong with opera?"

"Nothing…if you like it. I don't. I think it sounds ridiculous."

Christine retorted, "Well, I think rap is garbage. You can't call it a song if it has no melody!"

"Well, opera sounds like people screaming."

"No," she countered, "_screamo _sounds like people screaming."

Laughing, Meg agreed,_ "Touché." _

"Opera's more sophisticated than a lot of what's out there. It's timeless. Do you think certain pop songs will last centuries?"

"Maybe bands like The Beatles." Back on the topic of her neighbor, Meg groused, "You know what else is creepy?"

A bit lost at the sudden subject change, Christine guessed, "Clowns?"

"No—well, yeah, but that's not what I meant. I'm talking about my neighbor again. What's creepy is that he's got this voice that just…" She shuddered. "I feel like…like he could hypnotize me with it if he used it a certain way."

Christine jabbed, "I thought that he never speaks!"

"Okay, well, yeah; he speaks, obviously, but very rarely. The only times I hear him speak are when he's yelling at me or giving me one-liners—usually in response to some comment I make. I've heard him sing, too, and I'm not crazy for voices like you are, but…it gets to me when I hear it." Tacking on another creepy thing, she cried, "Plus, he always wears a mask. What's up with that? …Why the hell are you smiling? God, you're a freak!"

Erik's frown turned to a grin, but it was short-lived, because Meg pressed, "So, tell me more about this new teacher of yours. Is he cute?"

"Meg!"

"…I'll take that as a yes." She grinned as she pointed out, "Oh, my God! You're _blushing_!"

"Wha—? I am _not_!"

"Yes, you are! You're bright red, and you've got this goofy grin on your face! Man! I never thought you'd be the type to go for the older men, though I guess I should have expected it given your newest obsession. What's that guy's name from _House_?"

Christine grinned. "Hugh Laurie. Oh, I love that man! Did you know he's British?"

"Yeah. You told me already. You were all, 'His American accent is amazing; you'd think he was American!'"

"Oh, yeah." Her grin turned sheepish.

She hoped that Meg wouldn't get back on track, but, for once, she didn't seem to have ADD. The teen prodded, "So, tell me more about your teacher. What's he look like?"

Christine prayed, _'God, if You love me as much as I know You do, You won't let that be on Erik on the other side of the wall. And if it is him…please let him be busy with music!' _Aloud, she offered, "Umm…skinny? He's really tall. Like, probably more than six feet."

Meg laughed. "That'd be so funny! You're, like, five-foot-one at _most_! Speaking of which, I'm taller than you!"

"By two inches! And frankly, I think it's dumb that you can gloat about growing when you know that my mom was super short. I got my mom's shortness and her eyesight."

"Isn't your eyesight your own problem?"

She sighed. "It is." She'd much rather talk about her eyesight than Erik. She'd rather talk about anything other than Erik at this point.

Erik was mystified yet entranced at the fact that Christine chose to give his key descriptors as "skinny" and "really tall". Most people would gossip about the fact that he wore a mask. This girl truly confounded him.

Christine got embarrassed anew as Meg mused, "So…how are things with Raoul?" She grinned, and Christine huffed.

"Fine."

"You never told me what he got you for your birthday."

Smiling to herself, she murmured, "A necklace. It's silver, and it has a heart that says 'Love,' and then there's a treble clef studded with diamonds. I hope they're fake."

"Well, you know that the boy could afford real ones. His family's loaded. …Isn't his family the main reason that you broke up with him?"

Erik reeled at the words "broke up". After processing them, he came to the conclusion that he didn't like Christine staying in contact with her ex-boyfriend—let alone accepting gifts from him. The fact that he got such a perfect gift told him that the boy still had feelings for her.

"No, not the main reason! I just…I felt like we were better off as friends."

Meg declared, "Bullshit! You still like him! I see it in your eyes and that sad, little smile of yours! Why'd you break up with him if you still like him?"

"I like him—just not that way."

The other teen huffed. "Let me know when you're ready to stop lying to yourself. I've _seen _you guys together. You're always hugging him and—!"

Christine rapidly refuted, "I hug everybody!"

"…Okay, fair enough, but do you _flirt _with everybody?"

Guffawing, she questioned, "Flirt? I don't flirt. I'm not the flirting type."

Meg shifted in her seat then challenged, "Oh, yeah? What do you call touching Raoul's arm and teasing him about being lazy in French—or when he tries to speak Swedish to you? Hm?"

Christine's eyebrows rose. "Being friendly?" She couldn't quash her grin.

"Yeah, but that's your flirting style! You're not a tramp, so you're not all, 'Hey! Look at me, boys!' but you go a different route. You're all, 'I'm tiny and cute! Hee hee! I'm so sweet! Don't you wanna be my friend? Ah, _no_! Don't tell me I'm blushing! That makes me blush more!'"

Laughing, Christine responded, "Okay, number one: no one is that explicit."

"I meant that as that's what your body language says."

"Number _two_, you know I blush more when people point out that I'm blushing!"

Meg cackled before crying, "You mean like how I pointed out your blush just now?"

Her "Shh!" dissolved into laughter.

"Guys love to tease girls, so the fact that you blush more when someone mentions it makes you an easy target. In general, you're very easy to get a rise out of. Why do you think Raoul's always teasing you? It's because it makes you blush more, and it's because he's still in love with you."

Christine sighed. "I don't want to think about Raoul. It depresses me. Sometimes, I think that I still like him romantically, but then I get embarrassed when I think about being with him as his girlfriend."

Meg observed, "Sweetie, that's just 'cause you're shy. You shouldn't let your embarrassment stand in the way of your happiness. Ask him out again! He'd jump at the chance. That boy's still gaga over you."

Her hair swayed gently and caught the light as she shook her head, insisting, "There are times that I think that I might like being with him, but, once I'm with him, I feel like…like it's _nice_, but that I'm not really attracted to him."

"This from a girl who bitches at the fact that Quasimodo doesn't get Esmeralda?"

Erik was actually quite familiar with the novel. Of course, with Christine's next statement, he realized that she'd only seen the Disney version.

"Oh! That reminds me: I still need to read the actual book."

Meg rolled her eyes. "You missed my point entirely."

"No, I didn't. You just reminded me that I've been meaning to read it. As proof that I'm not ignoring your point, I will say this, 'Raoul is a handsome guy, and…'" Her heart melted at the thought of his smile and blue eyes. "Ohh…" Her hand went to her heart, and she grinned like a fool. "I forget how beautiful he is sometimes. You know that I'm a sucker for blue eyes." She mumbled, "It's times like these that make me think that I might want to be his girlfriend again. Oh, my heart's racing just thinking about his smile!" She patted the offensive thing.

Erik couldn't relax his jaw. It seemed that even Christine wasn't immune to vanity and superficial attraction.

Her tone of voice made it seem like she was speaking to a child when Meg asked, "So, why don't you?"

"Because…I don't know. Because he doesn't like opera. Because he listens to rap. Because my father took the time to teach him violin, and he gave up on it and called it boring to my dad's face."

"What? Oh, come on! He was, like, _seven_, and you guys were in Sweden. Besides, he picked it back up after a couple of days. He was probably just frustrated at not being immediately good."

Christine laughed. Her brow furrowed as she questioned, "What does our location have to do with anything?"

"Uhh…I don't know! My point is that you're too picky! He's French—which you like; he's romantic and has manners—which you like. He's got blue eyes—which you like. With the exception of opera and rap, your musical tastes coincide. He at least _tolerates _opera. He smiles when he listens to you sing."

The blonde challenged, "Only for the first few minutes. After awhile, he gets bored."

"How do you know?"

She shrugged. "…I don't, but it seems like it."

"Maybe he's just listening intently." She then pressed, "He likes Disney! He's a big dork with you about it! He's in French Club with you as a fellow officer, Miss President! He's reliable. He's punctual. He'd do anything for you. With the exception of a couple of musical things, he's perfect for you."

Christine deadpanned. "Meg, what you just said is like if a guy has so much in common with you…except for the fact that he likes hip-hop but gets bored watching you do lyrical or ballet."

Her jaw dropped. "I love lyrical—and ballet! Oh, my God! You're right! How depressing!" She pouted but picked up a second later. "Oh! That reminds me: we still have to finish this. And because I know that you love Sarah Brightman, we'll watch 'Deliver Me' this time. I know you were bummed when I skipped over it last time; I just didn't feel like watching it."

She beamed, her mood lifting. "Thanks. The costumes are so pretty, too—all white and flowing. You look like angels!"

"Umm…that was kind-of the point."

The opening was over, so Christine stopped talking to sing.

"_Deliver me out of my sadness_

_Deliver me from all of the madness_

_Deliver me, courage to guide me_

_Deliver me, strength from inside me." _

Erik had his ear pressed against the wall as he listened hungrily. It sounded like the song suited Christine perfectly. It actually brought tears to his eyes. The chorus especially got to him:

"_All of my life, I was in hiding_

_Wishing there was someone just like You_

_Now that You're here, _

_Now that I've found You, _

_I know that You're the One to pull me through_

_Deliver me…" _

As the dance concluded with the girls in white grouping artfully on one end in what looked to be a group hug, Christine gushed with a sigh, "I love Sarah Brightman. She does a lot of covers, though—like, this isn't her original song."

"I know," Meg muttered. "You've told me a thousand times."

"Oh! I still love her, though." Laughing, she requested, "Can we watch that one again?"

"Sure. It's one of my favorites. I'm putting a cap on it, though: we're not going to listen to it more than three more times."

Chuckling, Christine agreed, "Okay."

They watched the dance twice more, with Christine singing along both times. "I don't know if you know this or not, but this is actually a religious song. There are more lyrics to it; she just doesn't sing all of the lyrics. …This song makes me feel closer to God."

It was hard to recall that Christine was strongly religious even when he kept in mind how they met—and the fact that the main place in which they interacted was in the sanctuary of the church. Yes, she wore a cross, but he never took the time to notice it; he was much too busy looking into her sweet, blue eyes to stare at her chest. It amazed him that he could forget, but he chalked it up to the fact that Christine wasn't one to preach; she didn't put it in his face all the time.

"Uh-huh," Meg supplied in response to her friend's comment about God. She didn't know what else to say. It made her feel awkward.

"Sorry. I forget: you're agnostic."

"Yeah. You've been my friend for how many years now?"

Laughing, she gave the rhetorical question a literal answer: "Since I first moved in here, back when I was, like…six or seven, so ten years."

Since it was from her previous year of dance, Meg begged, "Please tell me I've improved since then!"

"You have! You were good then, too, though."

"Ugh. No, I wasn't. I'm so much better now."

Christine laughed, pointing out, "Well, yeah. You've had time to improve. That doesn't mean that you were _bad _here. You were good for your skill level."

"Ehh… Okay, moving on!"

The music changed to pop again, and Erik pulled away from the wall, bitter that there couldn't be another lyrical piece for Christine to sing along to. He sat in his large, gray swivel chair and huffed. He had half a mind to break into the Giry apartment, find the DVD, make a copy of it, and then return the original (to cover his tracks) just so that he could see what Christine saw. He decided that he'd wait until both residents were off to their evening ballet class. That would be the most opportune time.

Fiddling on the computer, correcting some typos in the program that created his sheet music, Erik perked up again when he heard movement. Meg apparently switched off the DVD player, because the girls cried in unison, "Aww! _The Wizard of Oz_!"

Much to Meg's irritation, Christine plopped down on the floor to see better, her head blocking a fair portion of the screen. "Ooh! Perfect timing, too!"

"Chris, could you move a bit? I can't see!"

"Oh! Sorry!" She scooted off to the side, watching it from an angle instead.

"Thanks."

Her friend beamed at her. "No problem!"

It was perfect timing because "Over the Rainbow" was about to start. Before the other girl had a chance to open her mouth, Meg complained, "Christine, I love you and your voice, but could you please not sing for once? I miss hearing her sing."

She smiled, somehow managing to hide her hurt as she agreed, "Okay." Meanwhile, back in 301, Erik wanted to wring Little Giry's neck. Fortunately for him (unfortunately for Meg), Christine couldn't refrain from singing—albeit softly. His only grievance with it was that her breathing was still abominable.

As the movie cut to commercial (since it was on TV and not Meg's copy on DVD), Meg sighed. "I never get to hear any of the original singers when I watch musicals with you."

Christine felt so badly that it almost made her want to cry. "I'm sorry! I can't help it!"

"Yeah, I know. Good luck to the person who tries to silence you. The only way they'd manage is to tear out your vocal cords!"

"Eww!" Meg snickered but frowned when Christine suddenly added, her shoulders hunched, "Hoh! Hoh! Nodules! Nodules! Hoh, no!"

Perturbed, the dancer ventured, "What are nodules?"

"My worst nightmare!" She whimpered. "They're like calluses on your vocal cords. It'd be akin to your Achilles rupturing or something."

Now Meg was sufficiently horrified. "I'm sorry!" She hastened to hug her. "We'll pretend that I never said anything, and maybe you won't get jinxed!"

"Well, now I'm definitely gonna get jinxed! Damn it, Meg!" They ended up giggling in spite of the depressing subject matter. Christine brought the mood down even more by uttering, "God gave me my voice, and God can take it away."

"If there is a God, He's mighty cruel. And yes, I know: He's a _loving _God. Don't bother lecturing me, Chris. I'll just ignore you."

Christine sighed and flopped down onto the floor so that she lay on her stomach. "I don't think that my voice will get taken away, though. I've felt uncertain before, but now I know that I'm meant to do something with it."

Meg's eyebrows shot up. "Wow. This new music teacher of yours is a miracle worker. Next thing you know, you'll actually have confidence in yourself."

"Tch. Hush!"

"'Hush'!" the other mocked. "Why don't you ever say 'Shut up!' like a normal person?"

Christine smirked, replying, "I save that for when I'm really agitated."

"Oh, you mean if I said something like, 'You like your music teacher, don't you?'" She almost didn't take the bait, but when Meg repeated, "You like your music teacher, huh?" she gave in.

"Shut _up_!" She laughed. "You…suck."

"And _you _are blushing!"

Her color worsened. "I am not! Shut up!"

"Ooh! A twofer!" They giggled.

Erik suddenly got it in his mind that he would lure Christine over to his place through music. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but her curiosity would win; he felt it in his bones. Thus, he went through with it: he produced his violin, checked that there was enough rosin on the bow, and got to it. He purposely chose Vivaldi's "Concerto in A Minor, RV356" because Christine mentioned it to him.

Meg laughed at the change that overcame Christine. She looked pissed—as pissed as Christine could get. She was the kind-of angry where she smiled instead of just pursing her lips while glaring at nothing in particular. So, she smiled and agreed, "You're right: your neighbor is an ass."

Erik grinned and kept on playing. He knew that she'd crack. He wouldn't be able to see the change in her demeanor, but he could rely on Meg's commentary. The girl had a comment for everything.

Just as he thought, the other remarked, "Your left hand's fidgeting. …Hey, wait a sec! Isn't this the piece that you played with the orchestra in, like, seventh grade?"

"Mm-hm," she ground out, tempted to pound on the wall as the other two had done. She pressed down on her left hand with her right one, but her fingers still moved; her hand continued to finger along.

Meg laughed at how angry the playing appeared to make her friend. "Oh, shit! You're, like…hissing through your nostrils! You look like you want to stab something!" She guffawed since this only aggravated Christine more.

Erik kept going, knowing that he had barriers that needed to be smashed. One of them was this odd anger of Christine's, which surely had to be a mask for her pain. She must let herself feel angry instead of hurt. The concerto was at least six to seven minutes long. He wagered that he'd break through to her by the end.

At the conclusion of the first movement, she couldn't take it anymore. She gave into her urge: she climbed up onto the couch and pounded on the wall, yelling, "Knock it off!" Erik's noise of amusement got drowned out by his playing; thus, she didn't hear it. She screeched in frustration at the fact that he wouldn't stop; she resorted to pounding repeatedly against the wall.

Meg lamented, "My poor wall. It takes such horrible abuse!"

Using the same breath for both, Christine uttered, "Partially from you!" then yelled into the wall, "And partially from your _ass_ of a neighbor!" Erik simply smirked and plugged right on through the second movement.

Christine began to panic more in her heart as the second movement got closer and closer to its end. The third movement was her favorite. When she was little, she'd ask her father to play it for her over and over. She had to wait until she was at least nine or ten before she could play it decently.

Her knees went weak as it started; she slumped against the couch and began to tremble. Thinking that her friend was cold, Meg asked, "Do you want me to turn up the heat?" She knew that the blonde got cold easily. Christine shook her head, continuing to _shiver_. "I'll go grab you a blanket or something from the closet. Be right back!" She bounded off the couch, not venturing very far at all. She frowned as she draped the comforter over her friend, rubbing at her jean-clad knee through the material.

The pressure in her sinuses was building. If she didn't let it out by crying, she'd get a headache. Since she didn't want to cry, she decided to take the headache. If it came, she'd ask for a pain reliever. She laughed and huddled under the blanket, shivering again. Maybe it was psychological, but she really felt cold now.

Rather than face the pain, she decided to pretend that things were different. Using Meg's apartment wall as a basis, she went back in time. She stared at the wall, pretending to be in her old apartment. The fact that Meg's furniture was more of a mirror image to her old apartment rather ruined the illusion, but she made do. She sat on the couch, her feet on the cushion, and made believe that her father stood in the living room, playing for her. Unfortunately, without her consent, the tears came; they welled up suddenly and leaked from her eyes. The only difference in her face was a slight tightening of her mouth. She sucked in a much-needed breath and pressed closer to the couch.

Forgetting herself, she requested, "Play 'Caprice No. 24'." She didn't mention "by Paganini" because her father would know.

Erik smiled and fulfilled her request. He wondered if she'd ever reached the necessary skill level to play Paganini. He had the feeling that she had. She probably could play anything that she requested, but she most likely preferred hearing someone else play them.

Meg recognized the tune and cried, "Oh, hey! This was the song that we did our contemporary dance to for that Ballet Pacifica summer intensive—you know, before they closed down. 'Contagious'—the one where we all had our hair down and looked like we were dea—!"

As gentle as she was about it, Meg still raised her eyebrows when Christine shushed her.

"Eww! See if I ever talk to you again!" She got silence in response. Her friend had her eyes shut; her features emanated supreme concentration. Meg's brow furrowed when she noticed the way that Christine's hands shifted into position. She abruptly played an invisible violin along with the music coming through the wall. It gave her goose bumps. The girl looked like a mental patient. It was creepy.

It all came to an end. With Meg's comment, she had come back to reality. She sighed at the silence. "I better go."

As Christine struggled to sit up from how the comfortable couch sucked her in, Meg put a hand on her knee, asking, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just tired, and I have to start working on my English homework that's due on Monday. You know me: I'm horrible with my procrastination."

"Ugh! Shh! No! School isn't starting! Shut up!"

Christine giggled and murmured, "I'm afraid so." However, she conceded, "I know what you mean, though…" and sighed. "At least we still have a couple more days left of vacation."

"Yeah," she grumbled. "All right. Well, I gotta pee, so I'll just give you a hug and let you show yourself out."

"Heh. Okay. It was fun hanging out, though."

"Mm-hm! Next time, we should plan something _fun_."

Cracking a smile, the blonde mused, "I don't know. Today was certainly entertaining."

"That it was." Meg's phone buzzed from where it sat on the arm of the couch. Sliding it open to reveal her keypad, she read her text message and beamed. "Good thing you've got to go. I'd feel guilty for ditching you—Chad wants to hang out."

Christine beamed. "Aww, Chad! Tell him I say hi! I love that guy! He's like…the quintessential Prince Charming!" The black-haired boy in question and Meg had been dating since July. The two were madly in love. Christine found herself swept up in their romance, getting a contact high from it whenever she saw them together. They were just so cute together. It warmed her heart greatly and always put a smile on her face.

"I know! I still can't find a flaw in him! –Ooh! Actually, that's a lie: he lied to me about…something."

"About what?"

She sighed. "I can't tell you. I don't want you judging him."

With a tilt of her head, Christine glared dryly at her friend. "I don't judge very often—if at all."

"He…smokes. I've known that he smokes, but he told me that he quit. One night, when he was over, I was rubbing his shoulders and his back, and I felt the carton in his jean pocket. He was all, 'I'll…be right back. I forgot to put my wallet in the car.' He never puts his wallet in the car; he always brings it in with him.

"So, later, as we were lying in bed together, I asked him, 'Sweetie, I'm not going to be mad, but have you been smoking? I just want to know.' He admitted to it, and then he started _bawling_. Like, I'm a little psycho when it comes to him, from missing him so much when we're not together, and I cry a lot—but usually not in front of him. It really touched me that he could be so devastated."

Christine agreed, "That is sweet. …I love Chad!" Just thinking about his handsome smile, rosy cheeks, and sweet, brown eyes made her beam. She loved him for making Meg so happy; because of him, Meg became a better (sweeter) person. "I love how he's always so happy—and how he actually listens to people…even though you two seem to have ADD, so none of us ever finishes a story when we're in the same room."

"Hehe. Yeah…. You probably have it, too, you know."

"No! I can focus when I want to! It's only when I start rambling without thinking that I lose focus."

Meg smiled and patted her head. "Sure, sweetie. Sure."

Christine suddenly intoned, "I don't think any less of him for smoking. I admire him for trying to quit, and I hope he succeeds." She took a breath to avoid tearing up. "He's got his whole life ahead of him."

Meg rubbed her shoulder sympathetically. "He'll quit."

"I hope so." Smiling, she offered, "He's a great guy. You're lucky."

"Raoul and Chad aren't very different."

This pulled a sigh from her. "I know. You know, in that instance, I can say, 'I feel the same about both of them!' I love that they're the romantic type, and that they're almost always cheerful, and that they're amusing smartasses, but I'm not inclined to date them."

"Mm-hm," Meg hummed with her eyebrows raised in great skepticism.

"It's true!"

"Well, you _better _not want to date my boyfriend, because he's _mine_!"

She laughingly assured, "I wouldn't dream of it! He's all yours!"

After some groaning, they eventually got off the couch—but not without complaining about how insanely comfortable it was.

Meg rushed off to the bathroom after a quick hug and "I love you!"

"Love you, too!"

Christine hefted her tote bag, dug out her cell phone, then left the apartment. She just got it open to dial when an icy hand latched onto her arm; the temperature soaked right through the sleeve of her lightweight, black sweater. She tore away with a gasp, her hand at her heart as she stared at Erik. "Oh! You scared me!"

"My apologies."

She rubbed at her chest then glared down at her phone. She couldn't remember whom she was supposed to be calling.

Risky though it was, he extended the invitation: "Would you like to come in?"

Since looking at Erik would probably end with caving in, she kept her eyes on her phone as she mumbled, "No, thanks. I really do have to get going."

"If you'd like, I could drive you back—so that you don't have to wait around for your driver."

She huffed. She couldn't shake her anger and unease with him. The tension remained in her heart. "That's okay. I don't mind waiting."

"Ah, yes," he loftily recalled. "You're terribly patient and able to wait for very long periods."

"I am," she mumbled, still avoiding his eyes. She huffed again, muttering, "I can't remember the number that I'm trying to call."

Rather than point out the likely fact that she must have it stored in her address book, Erik again suggested, "I wouldn't mind giving you a ride home."

Something in her snapped: she squared her shoulders and lifted her head to glare at him…only to find that her glare withered away in the blink of an eye. She randomly stated, "I used to live in this apartment complex."

"This very one?"

"Mm-hm. We lived on the second floor."

He nodded and smiled. "Interesting."

Her teeth pressed together, followed by her lips pursing. She didn't want to give in. If she went into the apartment, that would mean that she had lost. If she kept the wall between them, she wouldn't become dependent on him. Thankfully, what little curiosity she had to see Erik's abode was nothing but an ember in her heart, almost entirely buried. "Thank you for the offer, but I think I'll just wait for my ride."

"Are you planning on waiting in the hall or in the parking lot? I'd advise the former, because you never know with people if someone will try to harm you on your way out. You'd be an easy target."

She pushed out, "I've lived here before. In general, the tenants keep to themselves." Nonetheless, she decided, "I'll wait right here—and when he tells me that he's here, I'll go down."

"You do that."

Very strategically, he moved inside but left the door open. That little ember got sparked to a gentle glow as she stepped forward, standing in the doorway as she peeked in.

* * *

**A/N: I had fun with this chapter, but I'm having more fun with the next one! Hehehe! **

**Also, not that anyone cares, but I'm back in French class! Whoo! We went over the syllabus, and one of the two oral assignments is to sing a French song. I'm not kidding. **

**Excuse the rambling. Feel free to skip over the rest of the A/N! **

**I'm so excited! Ahhh! I've got horrible stage fright, though, so my voice won't sound as pretty. Ahh! But I'm still excited! I have to figure out what song I'll sing. I have so many favorites that it will be hard to pick. Oh well. I have all semester to decide. **

**I told my dad, and he asked, "When is it?" Quite confused, I told him that it was at the end of the semester. He replied, "Oh, we have plenty of time!" A second later, I realized that he meant to record accompaniment for me so that I can sing something in my style (classical). He also recommended that I call my grandma and have her help me pick something. Aww! I love my dad. He's so thoughtful! **

**Of course, common sense dictates that I pick something that will show off my range but not my weak points. I want to challenge myself/ not choose something too easy, but I want to make sure I sound good. What if I'm too nervous/ tense to hit my high notes? Maybe I'll cop out and choose something easy to sing. Plus, I think I'll go last…but, then, what if I hear people who are REALLY good? I'll get intimidated. **

**No, no! I won't! I have confidence in myself. …((snort)) Okay, so that's a lie. The whole reason I have stage fright is because I'm not confident. Durrr! **

**I'm torn: Do I want classical, with my dad playing piano accompaniment? Do I want to just be lazy and sing along to a pop song even though I don't sound as good in pop? Hmm. I could sing "Vivre" from **_**Notre-Dame de Paris**_**. I'll probably sing that if I don't go the classical route. **

**Anyway, if you guys have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them. I'm always up for new French music – classical, rock, pop, whatever! Keep in mind—as far as suggestions for my singing oral—that I'm no alto (or mezzo). I'd love any suggestions for French music to listen to, though. **

**: ) **

**Please review! **

**Kagome-chan **


	8. 301

**A/N: I am pleased to announce that I have someone else reading over my story to catch typos. Yay! **

**Please welcome **_**UbiquitousPhantom **_**as my beta. Also, join me in celebrating the fact that I got back in touch with **_**Wandering-Phantom**_**, my French beta. Together, we learn each other's native tongue. It's quite funny. We go back and forth between English and French, correcting each other. Of course, she's much better at English than I am at French. Oh well! The only way to learn is to practice! **

**Also, though she is busy with life, I am able to run things by my Swedish beta, whose pen name I, unfortunately, forget. I remember her real name, though. **

**So, yay! My languages will be accurate, because I have native speakers guiding me! If I didn't have them, I'd go BERSERK! I'm too much of a perfectionist. Hehe. Don't worry, though: I don't have long stretches of foreign dialogue – just a little here and there to make things interesting. **

**Is anyone else a language nerd? No? Just me? XD **

**Enjoy! **

**

* * *

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Chapter Eight: 301

The apartment was dim; the blinds on the sole window on the far wall were shut. The only light was the fluorescent from the kitchen. Everything was impeccable. The kitchen gleamed; the carpet was spotless; the tall bookshelf against the wall to her right, beyond the kitchen, was highly organized.

There was a small table directly across from the kitchen that had mail on it—particularly, some boxes, though there appeared to be some bills—but it wasn't overly messy. Everything was sorted into piles. She wondered if Erik used this table to eat as well, which then got her picturing him eating alone. That was one thing that always got to her: she hated imagining (or seeing) people eating alone; she, herself, hated eatingalone, because she knew how lonely it could be.

Even the bed that sat in the middle of the room was neatly made, the black covers tucked in to reveal that there were things stored underneath the bed—more boxes. She was quite disappointed not to find any music lying around—not even a single piece of sheet music. There was, however, a very nice stereo set on the middle shelf of Erik's bookshelf.

It was the bookshelf that drew her fully into the apartment. The bookworm in her wanted to know what Erik liked to read—if they had anything in common. Thus, the ember turned into a small flame; and somehow, she stood at the bookshelf in question, peering at the rows of novels. Her fingers graced the spines of them, and her lips moved as she read the titles in her mind. There appeared to be a lot of biographies on musicians, quite a few on the most famous of composers. He had various novels on operas; a couple of books each on a myriad of instruments, including voice, violins, organs, and pianos; some on human anatomy; some on psychology; and quite a few in French that eluded her. There didn't appear to be anything other than educational, intellectual writings. It left her wondering what Erik did for fun.

Did he not read for entertainment? If he did, what would he like? Mystery? Horror? Romance? Adventure? Fantasy or Sci-Fi? If he didn't use reading as his entertainment, what did he enjoy?

Erik quietly shut the door so as not to alarm his guest. He grinned, quite giddy to have her in his apartment. She examined his bookshelf then shifted over to examine the case where he kept his small movie collection. She seemed surprised that he had musicals amongst his opera DVDs; her eyebrows lifted as she perused them. She moved to examine the case that housed his CDs, which was on the other side of his flat-screen TV. These were more extensive; he had a couple of long towers of them.

He found himself grateful that she had bypassed his dresser, seeming not to notice it because she got drawn in by the bookshelf near the foot of his bed. If she turned around, however, she would see it by the head of the bed…and she would see the nightstand on the other side; she would notice the bust that he used to store his mask—usually the one that he wore out in public—and his wig. With great caution and stealth, he crept to the bed and moved the bust, stowing it underneath.

Just as he straightened, Christine turned around, commenting, "You don't have any posters on the wall. …Well, I'm not one to judge. The walls in my room are bare. I'm just too lazy to decorate." She grinned then tilted her head. Soon, her eyes left his and roved around the apartment. When they returned to his, her grin was giddy and semi-childish. "Where's all your music equipment?"

"In a separate room. Would you like to see it?"

She laughed at him, and it confounded him. "I can't believe you have to ask!"

Oddly hurt by her laughter, he ushered her along, pointing out that the bathroom was off to the right in case she needed to use it.

"Actually, I do. Do you mind?" She winced. She hated having to use other people's bathrooms—particularly because she apparently had the world's smallest bladder, so she often visited it more than once during a social call.

"Not at all." He gestured for her to go on in. He was quite relieved because it would give him time to straighten any mess in the music room. Sometimes, he didn't take enough care with his sheet music, so it ended up strewn all over the place.

As Christine washed her hands, she noted the electric toothbrush in a charger on the counter. Her eyes darted to her reflection as she dried her hands on a nearby hand towel; she scoffed at the fact that her hair was a little messy. Shaking her head, she dug her hairbrush out of her bag and set to fixing the tangles in the back. She didn't bring any make-up with her, but she always brought her brush simply because her hair became tangled very easily.

She'd locked the door, but she still glanced at it warily while shoving her brush back in her bag. Her heart began to race as she lowered her bag to the floor. Paranoid about getting caught, she tugged open the door to Erik's medicine cabinet.

Normally, she was a great fan of privacy, and she would never dream of going through someone's medicine cabinet…but there was something about Erik's that called to her, beckoning her to open it.

She picked up a prescription bottle and tried to decipher what it was for. In laymen's terms, the label informed her that its use was for sinus infections. There was also a nasal spray. Aside from a bottle of mouthwash and a bottle of cologne, there wasn't much in there. Some discreet sifting through the drawers revealed toothpaste, floss, Q-tips, some kind of skin cream, and deodorant. In the middle drawer, after shifting aside the skin cream, she found what she learned was an ear-cleaning kit. It amused her that Erik had apparently heard as well that Q-tips were not meant to be stuck in one's ears. He might have even heard it from his doctor friend. According to the diagrams on the box, they were to be used for things like first-aid and removing dust from equipment like a computer keyboard.

After shutting the drawers as quietly as possible, she poked her head in his shower—which was actually a combination between a bathtub and a shower. Luckily, the panel was left open with enough space for her to stick her head through. It reminded her of her old apartment. Inside, she found only a bottle of body wash. She frowned. Erik didn't use shampoo or conditioner? Judging from the earlier view at the counter, he also didn't shave.

'_Weird… Maybe he just ran out.' _

She pulled back with the utmost care, terrified that she'd bump against something and create a noise that would give her away. Since the coast seemed clear, she went to the door. She just barely caught the fact that the medicine cabinet door hung open. A slow exhalation of relief exited her mouth as her hand slid away from the mirror. She did not want to see an angry Erik.

Her hand went to the doorknob, but she paused.

'_Wait a sec. How did I end up coming inside his apartment?' _

It was scary that she couldn't remember doing it. Sufficiently freaked, she swore to herself that she'd book it on out of there as best she could while trying to be polite with Erik.

The door wouldn't open. She felt like an idiot when she recalled that she had locked it. Rolling her eyes at herself, she muttered, "Where is my head today?"

Her plans to vacate the apartment vanished as she spied Erik in his music room. Currently, he rearranged a stack of sheet music. The stack was almost up to his waist. He turned, and they both startled at the sight of each other. He mused, "You _are_ quiet. …No one ever sneaks up on me."

She grinned and shrugged. She had no idea what to say, so she said nothing. Instead, she directed her attention around the room. All the recording equipment both intimidated her and inspired awe. "You've got a pretty intense set-up here."

"It's not much, but it's my own little studio. I make do with it. I have a program on the computer that records my music as I play, translating it into sheet music. There are a few bugs in it, however, so I usually have to go in and edit it, but it makes the process a lot faster."

She didn't know why, but the idea of recording in the room gave her chills. Perhaps it was the notion of the software on the computer translating the music into sheet music on its own. That was cool yet creepy. She noted that there appeared to be such a program open on one of the computer screens. The other computer was turned off. "Why do you have two computers?"

"The software I use eats up a lot of memory, so I use one for my recordings and one for my other affairs."

"Hmm." She smiled, trying to picture Erik going online. He inquired into this, wondering what was so amusing. "It's just weird trying to imagine you on the computer."

"Why?"

Her shoulders shot up as she helplessly supplied, "I don't know! Part of me thinks that you'd be proficient with technology, but part of me thinks it'd look funny. I don't know why."

"Hmm."

Anxious about things turning awkward, she turned and faced the table with his instruments. She gravitated toward it, keeping her eyes and hands away from the violin case like it might burn her. Her hand graced the slender flute case; it produced a smile. She hadn't played the flute in years.

Sensing an opportunity, Erik stepped forward, asking, "Do you like the flute?"

"I do. …I used to play it. I played it from fifth grade through eighth grade—four years, along with violin in the orchestra. I didn't want to do marching band in high school, so I quit and went for choir. I haven't played the flute since eighth grade."

Without a word, he stepped forward and opened it up, maneuvering around her lingering hands, which soon hovered over the gleaming silver set into red velvet. "Wow," she breathed. "Your flute is the most beautiful one I've ever seen! Mine is…ugly. The velvet's like a royal blue, but it's stained with God knows what—grease or something. My actual flute is in fair condition except for the headjoint. The headjoint is discolored and has a dent in it."

Erik smirked at the irony, taking it in comparison with his face. He could easily apply the description to it, considering his lack of a proper nose.

Christine mused with a gentle smile, her fingers gracing the shiny perfection before her, "I don't care, though. I love my flute. It still plays just as well. I think it has character because it's not perfect. I don't know. Maybe I'm just…relating to it."

He couldn't fathom it. "Relating to it? How so?"

A wry laugh popped from her. "I've got imperfections that I think give me character. I don't know how other people feel, but I like my…uniqueness. I've got interesting stories to tell." Her heart had to recover from her near slip. She still wanted to avoid mentioning her scars.

"Are you referring to your lazy eye? It's very minor. I didn't even notice it until the mention of how you're legally blind."

She sighed but smiled at him. "It shows up in every picture no matter how hard I try to keep my eye open wide. I learned not to do that, because my right eye gets super wide in compensation, so I look crazy." Chuckles floated from Erik, joining her laughter. Shaking her head, she added, "Now, I just let it droop. I try to focus my eyes for pictures, but they always look glazed. Well, not always, but often."

"That's a very minor flaw."

"I have more. I'd just rather not share them with you."

His heartbeat quickened. "Why not?" he pressed, trying to be as gentle as possible (and not too eager).

She shrugged, her discomfort creeping in. "I… You'll…You'll treat me differently."

He scoffed. "Christine, I am certainly not one to judge."

"That's just it: I'm not afraid of you _judging _me; I'm afraid of you…hmm…idolizing me—like I'm a miracle or something. I'm not special. I'm just…me. I consider myself normal. Most of the time, I don't even think about my body. The only reason I think about my eyesight is because it's so vital; even then, it's not always conscious thought. The most I think about it is when I can't read something, or my contact starts getting sticky or dislodged or something. I get annoyed by my cough, but I don't consider myself…disabled."

He blurted how he felt in his heart without taking her point into consideration. "That's what's so amazing about you. You carry on. You're practically oblivious to how lucky you are. It's…astounding."

A sigh gusted from her; she idly caressed the smooth metal underneath her fingertips. "You're doing it already." She tried to sound lighthearted and teasing as she declared, "I'm not going to tell you. You'll have to find out on your own."

"As long as you're not secretly dying of a terminal illness, I think I'm okay with that. I enjoy challenges."

She shook her head with a budding smile. "I'm not dying—at least, not right now."

"Good. I'd hate for you to keel over before we've even reached the fun part of your training." As he fondly regarded the way that she smiled down at the flute pieces, he proposed, "Would you like to play it?"

"Hm? Oh, no way! I don't want to get my spit and germs all over it—all up _in it_! No, thank you."

He reminded, "I clean it pretty thoroughly. …I'm curious to hear you play. You don't hate the flute now, do you?"

With only a few chuckles, she set to piecing it together. Erik couldn't help himself: he adjusted the headjoint to its proper position without waiting for her to do so. His heart pounded harder as she raised the mouthpiece to her lips, her fingers taking up the formation. He tried to remember if he had wiped the mouthpiece the last time that he played. He couldn't recall, but he probably hadn't, which meant that they now shared an indirect kiss.

Her index fingers, left thumb, and right pinky pressed down as she blew out a low B-flat. For the first time, his instrument drew goose bumps from him. He suspected that a lot of it had to do with staring at her pretty, tiny lips forming the embouchure needed for producing sound in the flute…or the idea that her breath filled it. She played through a B-flat major scale that, unfortunately, wasn't very good.

"Maybe if you had stuck with the flute," he remarked, "you'd be better at diaphragmatic breathing. Of course, maybe the reason that you're not very strong at it is because you lack that skill in general."

"That, and I'm super rusty."

He offered up a crooked grin, conceding, "That, too."

After playing through a handful of scales, she discovered that she'd forgotten how to play many of the notes. She hated the fact that she could _feel_ how much of her spit went flying into the metal tube. "Okay, I'm done!"

Out of habit, she began pulling it apart, starting with the end then moving to the head. For the latter, she wrenched at it and tugged it free.

Much to her horror, she saw some of her spit go flying from it. To make matters worse, Erik gaped with great dismay. "I think I know why your flute is damaged now." His heart felt wounded, but he choked out, "You never learned proper maintenance." Still trying to recover from the pain in his heart, he dazedly uttered, "You never want to force the joints together or apart; you want to be gentle with how you pull the headjoint free. You always want to clean the flute so that it's free of debris. I'm assuming that you got lazy with cleaning it." Her wince was enough of an answer. "Ohh…oh, my poor instrument." His hand gripped at his false hair without dislodging the wig.

People had paid dearly for lesser offenses. He didn't know how to handle Christine's ignorant abuse to his beloved instrument. She wasn't some random fool; he couldn't lash out at her like he did with everyone else. She'd probably cry if he did, and he'd never forgive himself for doing it in the first place. It wasn't her fault; he blamed her instructors or the person at the music shop where she got the flute for not instructing her on proper maintenance. Still, he needed some way to siphon off the anguish in his heart. He had no idea how to recover.

He carefully took the two remaining pieces from her, setting them aside as he began to use the cleaning rod with its specific cloth threaded through then wrapped around the length of the rod. At Christine's "Ohh!" of understanding, he warned, "Don't tell me. I don't want to know how you cleaned your flute. And since you obviously don't know: it's not even _cleaning_; it's more literally _drying_."

Christine frowned at the jab, but she replied, "That makes sense."

Mourning the abuse, he muttered with great bitterness, "If this is how you treated your flute, I'd hate to see how you treated your violin." She flinched, but he was so preoccupied that he missed it. "You haven't been taking very good care of your voice, either. That much is obvious. You don't hydrate nearly enough throughout the day; you speak quickly, which dries out the cords faster; you haven't been speaking at the proper pitch; you attempt songs well above your current skill level. I think I've gotten to you just in the nick of time."

It wasn't overly harsh, but her eyes stung. She clenched her jaw and tried to block out the image of her broken violin. It made her want to cry; it made her want to scream and sob. She clung to her anger.

Oblivious to Christine's demeanor, he mused to himself, "Your father's violin is probably dusty and out of tune—probably horribly neglected."

With a deep yet silent inhalation, Christine clutched her cross and prayed for patience so that she wouldn't lash out physically at Erik. She was, for the most part, a pacifist, but even she was prone to throwing things around or slapping or pounding her fist against something. Right now, she felt like shoving Erik.

'_Breathe. Don't let it get to you. He's just trying to deal with you hurting his flute.' _

As a distraction, she went over to the keyboard. She turned it on; the small, rectangular screen glowed green. She pressed the G above Middle C, discovering that the keys were sensitive to pressure, meaning that they could produce dynamics. She frowned at the fact that no sound came out. After a moment, she realized that she needed to put on headphones. They fit snugly on her ears, almost uncomfortable in weight. She began hunting for a sustain pedal; it was plastic and difficult to keep in one place. Also, due to Erik's height, the stand was set up high, although situated to be played while sitting. She felt awkward about dragging the computer chair over, so she tried to play while standing, which was incredibly difficult. She didn't play any real songs; she mostly did Hanon exercises.

Finished with cleaning, Erik locked up the clasps of the case. He turned and got rather scared to see Christine at his keyboard…with his headphones on. The strap across the top that touched his bare head more often than not now touched her hair; the earpieces covered her ears and even pressed in on her cheeks. He approached her, but all he could manage to do was place his hands on her shoulders. She startled and turned to face him, sliding the headphones down so that they hung around her neck.

"Sorry. I didn't think that you would mind. I should have asked. I'm sorry." She quickly removed the headphones and set them on the keyboard, which she then shut off after hunting and fumbling for the power button.

He nodded, but he felt lightheaded. His mind reeled; he pulled her against him, squeezing her to him. Her ear pressed against his chest; her eyes faced the doorway. She didn't remember hearing Erik shut the door. Already tense at the sudden embrace, she flinched when he began caressing her hair. "It's all right," he soothed. "I'm not angry."

She hated that this embrace freaked her out. She abruptly realized that it was entirely inappropriate to be in Erik's apartment in the first place. He was an older man; she was a teenage girl. People might get the wrong idea. She was uncomfortable just at the intimacy of being in his living space. She was even _alone _with him. It wasn't that she thought that he would try anything; she just felt awkward in this intimate situation. It seemed oddly mature and too serious for her liking.

It hadn't hit her fully until now: she was in Erik's domain, and she barely knew him. They'd only known each other a little over a week. The way he held her, the way he stroked her hair, was creepy; she shivered and gently began to push her hand against his chest, choosing her left since it was stronger. Though the signal was clear, Erik merely held her tighter. Once she let go of all the expectations set by propriety, releasing everything from her worried mind, she relaxed. It suddenly didn't feel nearly as bad. Of course, now that she finally relaxed, Erik chose this time to withdraw. His hands weighed on her shoulders as he downright requested, "Would you like to hear one of my recordings? I could play you some _Saint-Saëns_."

Christine gaped, confounded at the coincidence. "I love _Saint-Saëns_. I haven't heard much, though—just the _'Rondo Capriccioso'_."

He beamed and squeezed her shoulders. "I thought that you might like him." Releasing her, he attended to his computer, insisting, "I'm sure that you've heard _'Danse Macabre'._"

She laughed, blurting, "I've played it. Just solo, though—at home."

"I'm sure that you've also heard _'Le Carnaval des Animaux'_. It's very famous. You've probably at least heard _'Le Cygne'_—'The Swan'."

Grateful that he didn't dig into her comment, she agreed, "I'm sure that I have."

"I'll play you something from that." As he hunted for the file, he giddily remarked, "You wouldn't believe how hard it was to hunt down some of these instruments—such as the glass harmonica. I'm afraid that I had to cheat and play everything myself, layering it all. It should still sound all right, though." With the realization that she remained standing, he bid, "Oh, sit! Be comfortable."

It came to be that they listened to the entire suite as it poured from Erik's computer speakers. Christine stared at the computer screen, watching the visualizer but mostly listening to the music. Her mouth hung open. It sounded like a full orchestra!

Following this, Erik put on _"Danse Macabre"_. Christine sat and merely listened, her hands still in her lap. However, when Erik began to play his rendition of _"Introduction et Rondo Capriccioso," _with piano as accompaniment, she couldn't keep from fingering along. Her left arm bent, her fingers and wrist moving along. She could barely keep up with his playing. Not only was she rusty and lacking the advantage of holding a real violin to stabilize her movements, Erik played it so skillfully that her brain could barely tell her fingers to move. Thus, she soon dropped her hand to her lap, pinning it there with her right hand to prevent further air-playing. Her fingers still shifted. She had to force herself to fist her hand.

Erik smirked. He hadn't missed any of this. The violinist was still in her, begging to come out. With near-silent steps, he went over to his table and produced his violin. He kept an eye on her as he rubbed rosin on his bow. She remained glued to the screen, staring at the visualizer while listening to his music.

As discreetly as possible, he moved in toward her. She was so focused that she didn't even bat an eyelash at his close proximity. He actually succeeded in his goal: freeing her left hand to hold the neck while he placed the body on her shoulder. The violin was a bit big for her, but that was to be expected. All she did was stare at it. Her hand gripped the neck but soon opened up, her fingers taking up their position, though not for any part of the current song. They curved in preparation to play.

Grinning, Erik moved to her other side and slipped the bow into her hand, arranging her fingers. With a gentle touch, he guided her wrist until the bow hovered near the strings. In spite of how she sat, her bow arm was perfect. She sat like a statue, staring at the things in her hands as if only mildly curious about how they got there. His hopes got dashed when she remained still, not playing anything. He paused to deliberate on whether she knew the piece or not. Given the way that she fingered in the air previously, he came to the conclusion that she did.

He tensed when her arms apparently became heavy; they dropped to her sides, hanging over the sides of the computer chair. The violin dangled in her left hand by its neck while the bow seemed barely contained between the fingers of the other hand. Heaving a sigh, Erik removed his precious property from her loose grip. He thought about putting the violin away, but he couldn't resist playing along to his recording. Christine flinched, her shoulders hunching, her arms moving to clutch at her torso. Apparently, she could listen to the recording, but she couldn't bear the sound of live playing. When it ended, she visibly relaxed, but she stared stonily at the computer screen.

Anxiety reigned in his heart. He didn't know what to say to her, so he put away the violin. It turned out that he didn't need to know what to say: she spoke first.

"I…" She blinked, her face remaining stoic. "I can't play anymore."

"Yes, you can."

Her head barely moved as she shook it from side to side. "No. My heart won't let me. I'm amazed that…" _that I managed to play even a little on my birthday. _"…that I could listen to all this so calmly." Nauseated, she complained, "I don't feel well. I think I'll head home." She couldn't find the strength to get up, so she just sat where she was. "It's cold in here." She shivered accordingly. Unable to breathe, she gasped in air. It was like she kept holding her breath, so she had to keep gasping in as much as she could whenever possible. She began trembling, flinching when Erik swiveled the chair and knelt before her. She tried to tug her hands free from underneath his icy ones, but his grip was firm—firm yet gentle. In this moment, she hated his hands. She hated being near him. "Why…Why are you pushing me?"

"Because you need to be pushed. You'll never break out of this on your own. You need the extra momentum."

Her tone got a bit sharp as she demanded, "What if I don't want to play the violin anymore?"

"That's not an option."

"What if I don't want to sing?" She clenched her jaw and glared when he laughed at her.

"Don't be silly," he chided. "Music is like oxygen to you. I know, because it's that way for me. You're holding back, dampening all of your emotions so that you don't truly have to feel."

She struggled to pull her hands free, claiming, "I do feel!"

He shook his head. "No, you don't." He regarded her little hands, daring to caress them. "You're such a fragile little thing, aren't you? I think that you're more durable than you give yourself credit for. Have you ever truly grieved the loss of your father?"

"Yes."

A smile appeared as he peered into her eyes, seeing the lie there. "No, you haven't. Maybe you've cried, but you've never truly _grieved_. You've never opened up your soul and wept from the depths of it. If you had, you'd be able to play the violin; you'd sing with true emotion."

She hated that he was right. Again, she struggled to pull away, only to find it fruitless.

"I'm not finished, Christine. You're being rude."

She choked out a laugh. He was scaring her now. Her mind could hardly process that he wouldn't let her even try to get away from him.

"Did you love your father?"

Her lips parted, and she bit, "Of course I did!"

His thumbs caressed her silky skin. "What did you love best about him?"

"Erik—!" She shook her head, her eyes threatening to sting. She clenched her teeth so hard that it hurt. He repeated his question, gentle yet forceful. "I…don't know."

"Yes, you do. What did you love best about him?"

Her mouth contorted as her eyes began to mist. "I don't know." _Don't make me…_

"Yes, you do. Think."

Her eyes squeezed shut, moisture gathering at the corners as she bowed her head and sobbed. After a long bout, she answered, "His generosity. His displays of affection. His violin. His nickname for me.

"He used to call me 'Little Lotte' because he told me this old Scandinavian story. He started it, 'Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was golden as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music.' I don't have a very good memory, but I asked him to tell me that story so much that it'd be impossible to forget it. …I always thought that she was really lucky to hear the Angel of Music. My father insisted that every great musician is visited by the Angel at least once in his life. 'Sometimes, he even leans over their cradle, and that's how there are child prodigies.'"

"Fascinating," the musical genius murmured.

She got out a laugh, her heart beginning to lighten a minute amount. "He edited it for me since I don't like scary stories, but I looked it up on my own. It's from a poem called 'A Child's First Sorrow'. It's by this nineteenth-century, Norwegian poet named…oh, what was his name? I think it was Andreas Munch. Anyway, a lot of Scandinavian tales get very dark. Part of me loves them, but part of me gets too freaked out by them."

Erik inquired, "About what was the poem?"

"Umm…well, it's about a little girl who rescues an injured bird—or, rather, her father rescues it and bids her to keep it or something. She keeps it caged, not realizing that it wants freedom to fly in the spring. One day, she goes to feed it and finds it dead at the bottom of the cage. …What was that verse? It really got to me when I first read it. Mind if I use your computer to look it up? I found it in an old book of my father's, and I e-mailed it to myself—kind-of as a reminder."

He gestured for her to go ahead. He eyed her with interest as she maneuvered around in her e-mail. The e-mail featured the original language with each verse accompanied by an English translation. Locating the verse that she wanted, she stated, "It's actually Norwegian, but I can still understand it. My father taught me Swedish and Norwegian. They're very similar languages."

She read aloud, translating for him:

"'And as she stood there silent, she became so strange

Before her clear eyes a fog grew

The sweet childhood blush faded from her cheeks

And slowly from her heart a dark pain rose.

She could not know, what this pain was;

But sorrow had written its first rune in her heart.

And marked its image deep on her soft features.

No longer did it disappear with her last tear.'

"…Depressing, isn't it?"

"It is."

Backtracking, she aimed to read the poem from the beginning. "My father changed the first verse to suit his story."

She took a breath, but Erik leaned in, requesting, "Just a moment." She tensed when he opened up what looked to be a recording program and clicked the button to record. Swallowing, butterflies in her stomach, she began to read the poem's translation from beginning to end.

Erik fell in love with the poem; it spoke greatly of Christine, and hearing it read in her voice only sweetened it. It was bittersweet, really.

Having forgotten about the recording program running, Christine noted, "Oh, I think I have new e-mail." She clicked back to her inbox but frowned.

"What?" he wondered, trying to figure out what perturbed her.

His only answer was, "I knew I should have deleted that account…" Nonetheless, she opened the e-mail to read the comment on one of her violin videos. Unfortunately for her, it was in English and not Swedish, enabling Erik to read over her shoulder.

_Wow! You were only thirteen here? Your amazing! _

"Either that person has horrible grammar, or they left out a noun…well, actually a complete thought."

Christine laughed and made to delete the message. She startled when Erik's hand lifted hers away from the mouse.

"Ah, ah, ah!" he scolded with a smile, giving her butterflies again. While she was busy staring into his eyes, he clicked the link that would open the video. Christine gasped as he used his left hand to pin her wrists to her lap so that she wouldn't close the window or pause the video.

Due to her shyness, she never spoke in any video. She'd give a long explanation of the video in the description box, but she let her violin playing speak for itself. She didn't have any videos of her singing or playing the piano (or flute) because she lacked confidence in her skill there. With the violin, however, she knew that she excelled, because she had practiced almost every waking moment. The only thing that took up as much time was her singing.

A gasp tore from her, and she cried, "No!" with great horror. "Oh, no! Not my glasses! Ah!"

Erik noted, "I think that they look attractive on you…but I do prefer you without them. The brown frames or the lenses cast shadows over your eyes…but the narrow frames suit your face. You've got rather small eyes."

"Oh, good! It's not just me being paranoid!"

"They're not too small, though; they're just not big."

She laughed at how he tried to avoid insulting her. He could just be stating fact, but it seemed more like he tried to soften the blow.

They both fell silent as she began playing "Schindler's List". She found herself silently shedding tears, her throat tight. She couldn't figure out the reason. Was it the song? Was it watching her younger self, who reminded her of the time when her father was alive? She had no clue.

Other than the feel of her beneath his hand, Erik tuned out the current Christine for the former one. The younger's brow furrowed with a great yet tender love for the piece. If it had just a hint more of _something_, it would have been perfect. She played it with great maturity, throwing her whole heart into it, but there was just a little something missing from it. Perhaps it was just the fact that she was so young that the piece seemed to overshadow her. Then again, her mother died when she was six, so she had experienced sorrow. This left him with nothing. He couldn't pinpoint what her playing lacked, and it bothered him. He wanted to take the easy way out by declaring her technique a little weak, but her father taught her well. By thirteen, she played professionally.

The piece ended, and both stared at the blackened video. Erik noted that her username was "LittleLotte". It made him smile. Knowing the history made it that much more endearing. He clicked on said username to view what other uploads there were.

Christine begged, "Please don't play anymore." He could easily hear the unspoken, _'I can't take it!' _

Reluctantly, he closed the window, but he made a mental note to himself to come back to her profile and investigate it. He released her, but, unfortunately, he couldn't find it in his heart to let her leave him. He had to keep her here…if only for a little while longer.

"Have you ever heard _'Méditation' _from **_Thaïs _**by Jules Massenet?"

"No. …I should ge—!"

"**_Thaïs _**is a lovely opera. I think you'd like it. It's French. In fact, it was first played at _l'Opéra Garnier _in 1894. _'Méditation' _is for violin and orchestra; it's an _entr'acte. _Here." He rapidly opened up the file, which featured his own harp accompaniment, and she slumped back into the chair.

As she sat there, the gorgeous music soaking into her brain, she came to the conclusion that Erik was drugging her though music. It took away her ability to move and made it harder to think. She lacked the energy to speak. It completely consumed her. All she could focus on was the prettiness of it. It warmed her from the inside out.

When Erik asked her if she'd like to hear more music, she nodded thoughtlessly. He played her _"Le Rossignol et la Rose" _because of how she appeared to like Saint-Saëns. Indeed, she perked up and declared, "I want to learn this song."

"When your technique's better, you will. You still need to learn trills and grace notes, so it will be awhile before we can get to it."

"This is all so lovely," she sighed, getting lost in the soprano's singing. "What does the title mean?"

A smile bloomed. "'The Nightingale and the Rose'."

She turned her head, regarding him curiously. "Is it like the Oscar Wilde story?"

"Oscar Wilde was born after Saint-Saëns, and I'm more familiar with Persian literature. Persia, of course, being Iran, now. Generally, the rose represents beauty…perfection; the nightingale represents a lover. …I take it that you've read the Oscar Wilde story?"

"Mm-hm," she replied with a nod.

"Good. When you do sing the song, you can use that as a basis."

This made her grin. Her curious, soft eyes enchanted him. He managed to keep his hands to himself, but he did murmur, "You have beautiful eyes." He observed, "There's a brown spot in the bottom of your left iris, near your pupil."

The end of the song distracted her from his original comment, but she replied to the one that followed, "My mother had hazel eyes. At least, I think that's how I ended up with it."

"That would make sense."

The room buzzed with silence. "Erik…" She smiled, bemused that her thought slipped away from her. Since he regarded her expectantly, she offered, "I'm sorry I spat in your flute."

He bowed his head, laughter tearing from him. "You really are quite random, aren't you?"

"Yeah, a lot of the time, I am."

Shaking his head, he chortled, unable to rid himself of his amusement. "It wasn't the spit that perturbed me; it was the wrenching of the headjoint." He shuddered at the memory.

"I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven."

She grinned at him. "Thanks." A second later, she proposed, "Oh, hey! As long as we're showing off stuff, there's something that I want to show you." Rounding on the computer, she opened up the browser again and hunted down the song from _Så Som I Himmelen_. "In summary—well, first of all, the title means 'As It is in Heaven'. Basically, the movie's about this successful conductor who goes back to his hometown. It's one of those inspirational type of stories where he reforms the local church choir, thereby learning from them—everybody learns from each other. It really says a lot about love. _Anyway_, I just wanted to show you this one song from it that I _love_. –And, by the way, when I love a song, I listen to it on loop. Meg doesn't understand how I can do it without getting sick, but, uhh…yeah. Here we go! The song's called _'Gabriellas Sång'_."

Since she rather hoped that Erik would someday watch the movie, she minimized the browser so that he couldn't see the video, leaving only the audio. Meanwhile, Erik was still soaking in the sound of her Swedish. He wished he could hear more of it.

It was a struggle not to sing along, but she wanted him to hear the original singer.

"Did you like it? If you didn't, I won't force you to listen to me sing it."

He quickly replied, "I loved it."

A small laugh popped from her. She couldn't get rid of her grin until she started up the song. Erik marveled in the sudden change: when the music started, she sobered yet performed it with great passion. She grinned at him upon the completion, garnering a smile from him.

"I love all the lyrics, but I think the final line is my favorite: _'Jag vill k__änna att jag levt mitt liv'_—'I want to feel that I've lived my life.'" She put her hand to her heart. "Oh, the whole song just speaks to me. For one thing, this movie…"

Her eyes began to get that familiar sting. Waving at her face, she laughed it off with, "Oh! Here we go again! Umm…" She huffed, blinking. She doubted that she'd stave them off this time. "This movie was…" She gritted her teeth as she felt more liquid gather. "…the last…" Sobs popped from her for a second. Her hand went to her heart. A tear finally broke free, dribbling down her right cheek. "…the last…" Sobs overtook her again, and she shut her eyes with gritted teeth, her hands fisting in her lap. She flinched when Erik put his hand on her shoulder, so he withdrew. In order to get through it, she had to shout it: "…the last birthday present my dad ever got me!" And that did it: she was sobbing into Erik's chest, sobbing her heart out, gasping for air as she clutched at his shirt. She cried as she had never cried before. She wept from the depths of her soul and truly grieved.

Erik had never felt happier. He was quite proud of his little protégée. This was the very wall that needed to be smashed through. She wept and even made little keening noises. She pulled back laughing, wiping as a couple more tears took their time going down her cheeks. She touched under her nose. There was snot. "Charming."

"I'll go get you a tissue."

In the brief time he spent away, off in the living room to grab the box, Christine sat perfectly still, her face softened by realization. Her dampened eyelashes batted against her clean cheeks. She felt her nose leaking. More importantly, she felt her soul become lighter. She laughed a little, marveling at the sensation. Her heart pounded harder. She bit down on her lower lip, smiling a little. She suddenly felt _happy_. She beamed at Erik when he returned with the box. She felt awkward about blowing her nose in front of him, but it seemed silly to go all the way to the bathroom just to do a couple seconds of blowing, only to return to the same spot.

"I'm sorry you had to see all that," she mumbled after her clean-up. She held onto the dirty tissue awkwardly. "Umm…where's your trash can?"

"In the kitchen." She gaped when he took the wadded tissue from her and left the room. She thought she heard a faucet run and took from it that Erik washed his hands afterward. When he re-entered, she cried, "Eww! I wasn't asking for you to throw it away for me! That's just so gross!"

He cracked a grin. He didn't want to admit that he wanted to detain her even longer now—and that her going to the kitchen would have reminded her of the need to leave. Therefore, he uttered, "I don't mind. I washed my hands afterward."

"I should hope so! …Eww. That's so gross." She shook her head, laughing. "Next time, _I'll _throw out my snot-infused tissue."

His heartbeat quickened. "I'll keep that in mind." _Next time? _

Christine turned back to the computer, declaring, "I'm going to find you a clip of the scene where she sings—it'll have subtitles. Eventually, I want you to watch the movie, but I at least want you to know what the song says." As she paused it, letting it load, she offered, "This song's really powerful—not just for the music or the lyrics, but for the fact that this is the point where the character, Gabriella, gets the confidence to perform solo."

"Hmm. Sounds like someone I know."

She grinned at him, and they sat in peaceful quiet while waiting for it to finish loading. To Erik's delight, Christine sang again.

"I can see why you relate to this song."

"I do relate to the song, but my personality is more like Lena—the blonde that it showed for a couple of seconds. She's the love interest of the conductor. …Oh, man! I hate when I spoil things for people! Ugh!"

He pointed out, "It's not particularly spoiled. I don't know whether they get together or not."

"True," she conceded. "Very true."

A little nervous, he stated, "I quite like Swedish. I think that I might like to learn it."

Christine smiled. "I wouldn't be against teaching you. You know, my father actually has an account on this site—well, two accounts, really. One is his professional account; the other is his, umm…sentimental account—kind-of like 'Hey, look! I'm a dad!' Anyway, my point is that there are some amusing videos where he tries to teach me Swedish when I'm younger. Up until the age of six, it was a struggle, because my mom wanted me learning English first. When she died, it was Swedish all the time. Heh."

"I'll have to watch those videos sometime."

"Preferably when I'm not around, because it embarrasses me to watch home videos. Thankfully, there are very few that he posts. Most of them contain us just playing music together."

He didn't know what possessed him to ask, but he requested, "Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"Hmm. Would I like to? Yes. Can I? Probably not."

The first portion of her answer softened the blow. "I understand. …Would you like a ride home?"

She beamed. "Sure!"

He became giddy. This was quite a change from earlier. He couldn't stop himself from commenting, "You're lighter now—less burdened. It's beautiful to see."

Her cheeks turned a light pink, and she laughed. "I feel better. …You were right."

"Can I take that as concession? Will you let me teach you violin?"

Feeling a bit coy, she responded, "Maybe. I'll think about it." Her grin and her eyes told him that this _probably _meant 'Yes'.

Erik gestured for Christine to go out ahead of him to give himself time to shut off the recording. He grinned. He really was a genius sometimes.

After he quickly locked up, the two stood in the elevator, enjoying the pleasant quiet on the trip down. While Christine clutched the strap of her bag with her left hand, Erik daydreamed about taking hold of her right one. As much as he adored their hugs, he craved the sweet sensation of holding her hand. He knew that it'd be bliss.

The doors opened on the bottom floor, and they found themselves face to face with Meg and her boyfriend. Things got awkward immediately. Meg snatched Christine by the wrist and tugged her out. The latter tossed a smile back at Erik, offering, "I think I'll just call my driver. Thank you, anyway, though."

"Wait! WHAT?" Meg demanded. "Wait! Whoa, whoa, whoa! I'm not processing this. Are you telling me that you were going to accept a _ride _from him? You don't even know him!" Christine laughed, and she insisted, "You don't know him! He could be a stalker or a rapist or a murderer. You don't know! …Chad, can we give Christine a ride back to her place? I don't feel right about her waiting around."

Ever cheerful, Chad shrugged with a smile and easily agreed, "Sure. No problem."

Thus, Meg dragged Christine away, setting back in on how the blonde was stupid. She got interrupted by her friend turning and calling, "Bye, Erik! See you tomorrow!"

"_À demain!" _he replied. He chuckled as the elevator doors closed. He just missed Meg flipping out.

"Wait! WHAT? Hold on! _Hold _on! See you tomorrow? What the hell?"

Laughing, Christine replied, "He's my vocal teacher. I met him at my church. He plays the organ for us."

Her jaw dropped rather comically. "_He's _your teacher? Oh, hell no! Christine! Oh, Christine… Christine, you… ugh! You're dumb! You don't know what he's like!"

"Neither do you! Aside from banging on the wall and yelling at each other, you don't hear from him much, do you?"

"I see him occasionally, but we never really talk."

Christine sighed. "That's my point exactly! _You _don't know what he's like. He might look scary, but he's actually nice."

"If he were nice," the other girl challenged, "he would smile at people and say hello. He's nice to _you _because he probably wants to do you!"

Christine balked at the vulgarity. "Actually, he's made it quite clear that he only likes me for my voice. I'm just another instrument to him."

Meg's face crinkled. "Really?"

"Really." Truthfully, she was beginning to feel that bond of friendship again, but she'd rather not admit this to Meg.

Chad, being his usual smartass self, questioned with a grin, "Does he want to play you?"

"Eww! Sweetie, don't be gross!"

He just chuckled and unlocked his blue Lancer with the button on his keychain. As he drove, the exhaust was loud, and the volume on the music was so high that the car _thumped_. Still, due to him being a freak about cars, the interior was pristine, and the black seats were soft and quite comfortable. While the two in front conversed about what they wanted to do when they got back to Meg's, Christine stared out the window and thought of Erik. It occurred to her that maybe she didn't know much about him. Maybe there were things that she needed to know—like what he was unwilling to divulge at the dinner table.

'_The next time we're alone, I'll ask him. I'll ask him to tell me all about himself. …But what if he asks me to tell him what I'm hiding?' _Her stomach got upset. _'I'll do it. If it'll get him to open up, I'll do it.' _

Meg and Chad walked her to the door. She hugged both of them, wishing them a good night before she went inside.

When Mama Valerius inquired about her evening, she could truthfully say, "I hung out with Meg and Chad." The woman nodded and left it at that, trusting her implicitly. Christine never lied to her.

Over dinner, they were quiet. A great deal of Chopin filled the air, compensating for their lack of conversation. It was highly peaceful.

For the rest of the night, Christine experimented with her father's violin. She marveled at the fact that she could play it again. She played through scales and some of her father's compositions, going over them so that they sounded good again. She tried to do it from memory, but she had to pull out the box under her bed that contained her sheet music. With the aid of the sheet music, she improved much more quickly.

Mama Valerius paused in the hallway, catching the music. She couldn't believe that her charge was playing the violin again. She decided that it must be a recording; there was no logical reason for her suddenly taking it up again.

As she put away the violin and pushed both it and her box of sheet music back under the bed, Christine smiled. It remained with her as she prepared for bed—even as she brushed her teeth. She went to bed feeling the most relaxed she'd ever been.

* * *

**A/N: Okay. HUGE disclaimer: I don't speak Swedish or Norwegian—or any Scandinavian language. **

**I jacked translations of **_**"Gabriellas Sång"**_** from the subtitles I saw, though I did run them by my beta. **

**I found the poem through research. Thankfully, phans before us have delved into the matter of Little Lotte, making my search just a little bit less obscure. Lol. **

**Also, I must confess: my elder sister is a great violinist, and I always used to sit and stare at her while she played. (I don't get to listen to her as much now since we're busy with our lives.) My favorite was always "Schindler's List". If I ever learn violin, I can't wait to learn that song. Unfortunately, my sister refuses to teach me until I get my own violin. ((sighs)) **

**Please review! **

**Kagome-chan **


	9. History: Part I

**A/N: EDIT: Due to an egregious error on my part, I had to re-work this chapter, which is why I took it down. Thank you SO much to _Mominator124 _for picking up on my brain fart. Lol. (Oh! I'm so embarrassed! Why didn't I think of it? It's practically common sense!) **

**Oh! ((facepalm)) **

**For those of who you read the chapter already, please re-read the clinic scene! I was inaccurate with it, so please re-read it. Everything beforehand remains the same, but I had to alter the interaction between the characters. I know that it's really annoying, and I'm sorry, but I hope that you'll enjoy the revamped version! There is actually a ****LOT**** of information on Erik and his mentor that came out. **

**Thank you! **

**Also, a little note here… In the novel, the man who helped Erik earlier in life (and then later helps Raoul to help Christine) is called "The Persian". Since Leroux never gave him a name, I won't either. It will make for an interesting challenge as a writer. He will go back and forth between being "the doctor" and "the physician" (instead of "The Persian"). Lol. **

**Also, I found out my French teacher LOVES _Phantom_! Rofl! I tried so hard not to spazz out in class. I'm thinking now that I'll just use the DVD and the French audio track (Thanks, _Phantom Shadowwalker_, but I'd rather do one of Christine's songs!) to do either "Think of Me" or "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again". I'm leaning more towards the latter, because I sound a bit awkward on the former with the French lyrics (and I'm afraid that I'll choke on the high B-flat at the end of "Think of Me"). Maybe I could get better with practice, but I think I sound better (at least in French) on "Wishing". **

**I'm getting a panic attack just thinking about singing in front of people! Ah! **

**Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter Nine: History: Part I

"Hi, Erik. I'm just returning your call. Sorry I couldn't answer; I was running late in clinic; I had to stay later to finish some charting.

"To answer your _request_, I cannot prescribe any sort of medication to someone I have never met—particularly because I need a medical history. It's rare to have an allergic reaction to an inhaler, but I'd still need a medical history. I like the personal interaction, but, I'll admit, I'm curious to meet this student of yours. Call me."

Erik scoffed as he sat at his little table, eating his small TV dinner, having found himself too lazy to cook something real.

He wasn't big on large portions. Generally, he ate very little. If Christine had stayed, he would have cooked. He might have taken a large portion to seem more normal. She ate healthy amounts of food. He noted from the dinner the night before that she actually liked vegetables. He wondered what her favorite foods were.

_'I'll have to ask her sometime.' _

As he thought about calling Christine to ask if she would mind going by the clinic tomorrow morning, he realized that they had no way of reaching each other—short of showing up unannounced at each other's doorsteps. It wasn't until he disposed of his empty tray, conserving space in the trash by putting it back in the box, that he remembered: she had used his computer to check her e-mail.

It was easy to figure out her e-mail. He just went through his browser's history to find which site she used. From there, he relied on his auto-complete to tell him her handle.

_GentlePrelude_

He smiled. It suited her. Taking a deep breath, he began composing his e-mail to her, labeling his subject _"C'est Erik"_. That ought to get her attention.

_Dear Christine, _

_ I found your e-mail in my history. I apologize if this offends you in some way. _

_I have a question for you: Would it be at all possible for us to meet earlier? My friend wants to meet you before he prescribes your inhaler. You'll probably want to inform your guardian since he plans on taking your medical history, and there may or may not be forms to sign. He might even examine you. Rest assured: he's an excellent doctor and very kind. There should be no reason to feel uncomfortable with him. He's a good man. _

_I greatly enjoyed our evening together. It was the bright spot of my day. Thank you for sharing with me and for letting me share with you. _

_I look forward to seeing you again. _

_Sincerely, _

_Erik _

He felt quite uneasy speaking well of someone, but he wanted to assuage any worries that Christine might have.

He waited for a while, but he never got a response. He suspected that she must have gotten sidetracked.

In the morning, he discovered her reply. His heart soared at the salutation even though it was such a customary thing and had no deeper meaning. The very idea of her calling him "Dear Erik" made him ecstatic.

_Dear Erik, _

_ I'm sorry I didn't see this earlier. I spent much of the night getting reacquainted with my father's violin. Sometimes, when I play it, I feel like he's standing in the doorway, smiling and secretly watching me with great amusement. It feels so real that I'll turn and expect to see him there. Of course, he never is. _

_ Yes, you read that right: I played again. Thank you. You were right. You really helped me. I guess now all that's left is to work on my confidence. Haha. I get nervous with the violin but not as much as when I sing. I think the difference lies in the fact that I know the external instrument better. _

_ Oh, I can sense that we're going to touch on this in our next lesson. Oh, my. You're probably going to be all, 'You need to learn to adduct your cords and get familiar with your instrument.' I'm right, aren't I? (Of course, you've already said this, so it's just repeating what I already know.) _

_ ; ) _

_ Fun fact: I can't wink with my right eye. I can only wink with my left. Weird, huh? When I try to wink with my right eye, I blink, and then I look ditzy. Most often, my head starts to tilt to the right as if that will help. Lol – laughing out loud, in case you're not familiar with Internet slang. _

_ Randomness: I want to type "lqtm" – "laughing quietly to myself". "It's more honest." (Demetri Martin.) _

_ Oh! That brings me to something I feel I must share with you. I love to laugh. (Who doesn't?) Therefore, there's a good chance that I might make you watch comedians. Hehehe! Hopefully, all of my raucous (yay, thesaurus!) laughter won't bother you. _

_ : P _

_ Wow. I ramble even more on the Internet since there's no brain-to-mouth filter. I don't think I've even begun to reply to what you wrote. Oh, goodness! Let's see! _

_ Excuse me while I add one more random fact: it's amazing that I'm up at this hour. I know that 9 doesn't seem like it's early, but, for me, it is. Lol. _

_ That being said, I shall go ask Mama Valerius. Expect a reply in anywhere from a few minutes to an hour, especially since I'll probably eat breakfast before I hop back on the computer. _

He stared at the little sideways heart that preceded her name. A heart meant love—_Love _Christine. He told himself not to read too much into it, but he grinned. Whether or not she did it with her other friends online, she'd done it with him. She loved him.

Since he already ate breakfast, he sat at the computer and waited for her next e-mail. To ease his boredom, he listened to the recording from the night before. He listened to it in entirety before using his recording program to cut out certain chunks so that he could save them as separate files—such as Christine singing _"Gabriellas S__ång"_. Each version got its own file. The full version got the original title while the scene from the movie got labeled _"Gabriellas S__ång (Scène du Film)"_. He had to do use his history to know how to write the Swedish, and he cheated by copying and pasting.

He ended up writing a semi-superfluous reply before she sent her next e-mail.

_Dear Christine, _

_ I am so glad that you've started playing again. I get the feeling that your father's instrument, while beautiful, must not suit you. You need your own. If you cannot remember where yours is, if you cannot find it, we'll need to buy you a new one. _

_ You are right: I will be discussing adduction more with you. Smart girl! _

_ Don't be afraid to laugh around me. Your laughter warms my heart._

_ By the way, I liked your choice of words even though I wouldn't dream of calling you "raucous". You're so quiet that I can't imagine you being loud, least of all "unpleasantly loud". You seem to consider yourself annoying, which I find a little annoying. You're perfectly wonderful. _

_ In the event that we shall meet up soon, I'm going to go prepare. I look forward to hearing from you again – rambling or not. _

_ ; ) _

- _Erik _

He would never wink at her in real life, but he rather enjoyed the idea of being teasing through their electronic communications. He was quite amused that the little face had no nose. He found it quite fitting.

* * *

Mama Valerius turned when Christine spoke as their breakfast got served.

"Would it be all right if Erik came over earlier? He wants us to go over to his friend's clinic so that we can get me an inhaler."

The woman blinked. It sounded enticing, but she wondered, "How did you come to talk about this?" She couldn't remember such a discussion.

Though it made her feel guilty, she fibbed, "We talked about it while you were asleep during our lesson."

"Ah. …Yes, I think it'd be all right. How are you going to get in touch with him?"

"Uhh…" She hadn't thought about this. "He gave me his e-mail address."

Mama Valerius questioned, "He gave you his e-mail address but not his phone number? Hmm. Strange."

"No, he gave me his phone number. I just have to go find the paper where he wrote it."

_'Oh, I am a horrible liar.' _

Nonetheless, her guardian nodded, accepting this—albeit with great distaste.

Christine didn't want to divulge that they were e-mailing already. When she got back to her room, she shut her door, slid into her seat, and rapidly e-mailed Erik.

_Hey. I think it'd be better if I could call you. I think Mama Valerius would be happier if we just got the name of the clinic or whatever instead of you coming over early. You could meet us there. _

Anxious, she jiggled her leg then drummed her fingers on the desk. Finally, she got a reply. He agreed, replying with just his phone number. She wrote it down on a piece of paper but also entered it into her cell phone, racing out of the room to hand the paper off to Mama Valerius. Her elder insisted that she use the house phone, knowing that it showed up as "Private". She didn't like the idea of Erik having Christine's cell phone. She rather hoped that the girl hadn't given it to him already.

As she did the calling in a fit of further protectiveness, she shooed Christine off, advising her to take a shower and get dressed. They'd most likely leave in the near future.

Erik noted that the number came up as private. Rather disappointed that she hadn't used her cell phone to call, he answered it.

She shivered at the haunting voice going directly into her ear. "Hello. This is Mrs. Valerius. First of all, I don't approve of you exchanging information behind my back. Of course, I only have myself to blame since I fell asleep. Second of all, all we require from you is the name of the clinic and the name of your friend."

Her protectiveness amused him. He gave her the information, leaving out that he planned on being there.

"Thank you. Have a good day!" She abruptly hung up.

It amazed him how 'Have a good day!' could sound so different from its original intent.

* * *

Yet again, Christine found herself preening a bit. She'd debated on what clothes to wear. If this doctor planned to examine her, what would be best? Did it even matter? Would he ask her to change into a gown? Would she not remove a single article of clothing? She probably wouldn't; the exam probably consisted of things like measuring her weight, her height, her blood pressure. Because she wanted to look casual yet nice, she settled on jeans but a nice button-up blouse, going without any make-up. This way, if there were a need for her to remove her shirt, she could just unbutton it. Unfortunately, almost all of her dress shirts—even the semi-casual ones—had minute buttons. They looked nicer, but they were a pain to deal with.

Almost all of her dress shirts had three-quarter sleeves. With great frustration, she went back and forth on what color shirt she wanted to wear, which then got her questioning on why she cared so much. Normally, she didn't care what she wore. Nobody else would care! As long as she didn't walk around topless or in a terribly tacky t-shirt, she probably wouldn't even draw attention. "This one," she decided, picking a pastel pink one.

She deliberated on her hair, also wondering if Erik would even care if it just hung down. She shook her head, laughing at herself. Why was she trying to impress Erik? She chalked it up to the fact that he always dressed nicely—usually in black pants and a dress shirt.

Finding it too boring, she ultimately decided to pull her hair back in the half-ponytail, which had become her new favorite hairstyle. With this accomplished, she grabbed her tote bag and was off.

She discovered in the car that Mama Valerius brought the folder that contained copies of her medical records. She sighed, knowing that the woman would probably discuss _everything _with the doctor.

As soon as she got out of the car, she tensed. Medical buildings always intimidated her. She particularly hated the smell—illness and antibacterial soap, it seemed.

Impatient, Mama Valerius hurried things along with money, securing the next availability. It quite sickened Christine, because it meant that actual sick people were missing out. It made her determined that they wouldn't waste too much of the doctor's valuable time.

Mama Valerius knocked on the exam room door. A voice called, "Just a moment!" Both were curious, but one was delighted, the other perturbed, at the sound of Erik's voice following this. They spoke in English, making it easy to understand.

"I'm good."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "I haven't had anything for a while. The medication is helping."

"As long as you're here, I might as well examine you."

Erik huffed but agreed to it. He, himself, had locked the door, so no one could possibly walk in.

Ever the professional, the bearded physician didn't even bat an eyelash as Erik removed his wig and mask. Erik's eyes moved elsewhere as he felt the familiar pair of hands touch his face. He stared at the scale up against the wall.

"Actually, could you get on the scale? I'd like to measure your weight."

He groused, "You know that I don't each much."

"Exactly. I want to make sure that you're eating enough to stay healthy. Don't forget: I know you. When you get sucked into your music, you go hours if not _days _without eating."

Christine frowned, her ear practically pressed against the door. Mama Valerius was a little more subtle with her eavesdropping, but she frowned as well—though not out of concern for Erik, more for concern that this type of person could rub off on Christine. The teen was known to get sucked into being on the computer or reading a book, forgetting about dinner unless called to it.

Shifting the pointer along until the beam balanced, the elder male muttered, "You're underweight."

"I'm always underweight," Erik quipped.

The doctor sighed. "I wish you'd eat more. I have half a mind to give you something that will increase your appetite."

"I don't need to increase my appetite."

"You're in denial. I thought you would have grown accustomed to eating like a normal person, but I guess old habits die hard."

Erik insisted, "I eat like a normal person."

The man's dark, thick eyebrows rose. "You eat like an anorexic girl." Christine clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Her mirth died when he added, "If your weight were any lower, I'd admit you and force-feed you."

"Hmm," Erik hummed. "Charming."

"Come. Sit back down. I want to take your blood pressure. Knowing you, it's undoubtedly very high, which is miraculous considering how you're underweight. Most people in your position have low BP and the risk of bradycardia—and organ damage."

Erik snapped, "Yes, yes! I know! You've explained the risks to me before!"

"Yes, and you seem to forget. I think it's time for a refresher: weakened immune system, low muscle mass—!"

"I _know_! Would you shut up already?"

He held up his hands in concession and went to grab the blood pressure meter.

The clinic was so busy that no one bothered to tell the two outside the door to sit down in the waiting area. Thus, they got to listen in more.

Erik grimaced as the cuff tightened on his arm. Thankfully, it was soon removed; the doctor made a note of the number. His brow furrowed. "Your blood pressure's much lower. It's…normal. What brought this on?"

"I don't know." _Christine… Oh, just the thought of her soothes me. _His shoulders had relaxed as soon as he thought of her.

He nearly growled when his friend decided to bring up the one thing he'd rather not discuss: Christine. If he talked about her, the other man would steal her away, and he couldn't have that. Christine belonged with him.

It was as if he sensed his thoughts. "So, tell me more about this vocal student of yours."

"No."

He pulled out a flashlight to check his pupils. He did this mainly to annoy his patient, knowing full well that Erik's eyes were fine. It certainly wasn't standard procedure in a check-up to look at a patient's eyes. He knew that his eyes were fine, because he forced him to go to an optometrist at least every two years, just as he forced him to go to the dentist annually. Even after a couple decades of this, Erik still complained with every chance he got. Thankfully, none of the medical professionals required their patient to remove his mask. They had been curious, but their curiosity died at the chilling glare from the teen and, eventually, intimidating man.

"Erik, don't be childish. I have every right to be curious. You've never taken on a student in your life. Now, all of a sudden, you take on a _female _one. You must understand why it's a bit perplexing." He tucked the flashlight back into his white coat's pocket.

Recovering from the flashes of light, Erik insisted, "It's none of your business."

His mentor sighed. "Fine. I'll meet her soon enough and judge for myself." Pulling the stethoscope from his neck, he plugged his ears and pressed the instrument against Erik's chest.

"She's keeping something from me."

Bemused, he distractedly pulled back from listening to Erik's heart. "Didn't you two just meet?"

"Yes, but—!"

"Then it's perfectly natural to keep things from each other, as I'm sure you've done with her. Have you at least mentioned Juilliard?"

Erik rolled his eyes. "Of course."

"I assume that you've mentioned me."

"Yes."

He pressed, "What about Paris?"

"Of course not!"

"Hmm. Yes, you're right; that's a bit heavy to discuss with someone you just met, particularly if she's young. You know, the only things you've mentioned about her is that she's apparently 'angelic in every way' and 'has the most beautiful voice you've ever heard'. How old is she?" Erik didn't answer, so he sighed. "Fine. I'll find out soon enough." He went back to listening to his heart.

Christine blushed, slightly uncomfortable (yet secretly tickled) at the praise apparently delivered behind her back.

Maneuvering around to Erik's back, the physician listened in on his breathing. "Breathe in…and out." He shifted to a different position. "And again. In…and out. –One more time. In…and out." He pulled the stethoscope from his ears, draping the thing around his neck. "You're fine." He rounded back to regard his face. "I would like to examine your nose, though—just to be safe."

Erik emitted a noise of disgust. "Don't bother. I'm fine. If it were bothering me, I'd tell you."

"Are you getting headaches?"

"No."

"No?"

He repeated with great agitation, _"NON!" _

"Oh. French. I hit a nerve. So, by your answer, you _have _been getting headaches. How bad? Scale of one to ten."

Begrudgingly, he confessed, "Seven."

"Hmm. Lie down. I'm going to do some cranial work on you."

Erik refused, supplying, "Christine will probably be here soon, and your treatments always take forever."

"What's the benefit of being a D.O. if I can't help relieve your pain? A doctor of osteopathy, by definition, uses alternative treatments alongside medicine to treat patients, such as the cranial work that I do on you. Why not take advantage of that?"

Trying to keep his patience, he stated, "I'm not in pain right now."

"All right. Later tonight, though, I'll probably come by and work on you."

Erik spat, "Have you nothing better to do?"

His friend chortled. "No. Besides, I'm sure that we'll have plenty to discuss once I meet your student."

"Speaking of which, I think I better get going. Her guardian already distrusts me, and I don't feel comfortable hanging around while you examine her. …What? Why are you staring at me like that?" He jabbed with a great deal of poison in his tone, "Do I have something on my _face_?"

He chuckled. "Yes: compassion. You're actually being considerate for once."

Donning his mask and wig, Erik retorted, "It won't happen again." The two smiled with closed lips at each other, but Erik's amusement vanished faster. As he stepped from the examination table, he loftily inquired, "I should expect you for dinner, then?"

"Yes. …I'm actually quite excited. I'm usually so swamped—we're usually both so preoccupied—that I never get to talk to you. I feel as if I haven't spoken to you since you moved to that apartment."

Erik said nothing—merely unlocked the door. Before it opened, Christine and Mama Valerius hastily (but quietly) retreated from the door, making it seem like they waited a couple of feet away. Catching sight of them, Erik turned to go. Unfortunately, Christine called out to him—in spite of her guardian's scolding.

"Erik!"

He stopped, heaving an inaudible sigh before he turned and walked toward her.

"Good morning."

All of a sudden, his nosy friend stepped out from the exam room, extending his hand, "Indeed. Good morning. You must be Christine."

She quickly shook the proffered hand with a "Yes! Nice to meet you!" and found it very warm. She hated shaking hands with people with warm hands because hers were almost always cold. In this respect, she liked that Erik's hands were cold.

"Nice to meet you, too. You're a lot smaller than I imagined—particularly, shorter. How old are you?"

She wasn't sure how to take this. "Seventeen. I just turned seventeen." She sighed, complaining, "Everything always thinks that I look younger."

The doctor had a very nice smile and kind eyes as he replied, "It will be good when you're older."

"Yeah. I guess you're right. Right now, it's annoying, because most people think that I'm, like, a freshman when I'm actually a junior. Ugh."

When he remarked, "You'll get over it," she laughed. She quite liked him already.

Mama Valerius extended her hand, shaking his as they exchanged names. She then passed off the folder with Christine's medical history. They all migrated into the exam room, with Erik going in only because Christine smiled at him like she expected him to come in, too.

Unfortunately, as soon as he got one foot in the door, the doctor got quite stern and scolded, "Erik, I'm sorry, but you can't be in here!" While Mama Valerius beamed at the event, Erik gaped as his friend closed the door in his face.

_'If you think that a measly door will keep me from being near Christine, you have another thing coming!' _

Thus, rather like the two females before, he eavesdropped at the door, only he stood in a less noticeable way. With his keen hearing, he didn't even have to lean in; he could hear their voices through the door, muffled though they were.

The folder seemed to fly open immediately even as she moved to get settled on the exam table. In a pleasant surprise, the doctor offered her his hand, helping her up. She beamed as a silent thank you.

"It's all in Swedish."

His patient immediately offered, "I was born in Sweden. There's an English copy beneath it."

"Ah, so there is. …Wow. Twenty-four weeks. Birth weight six-hundred grams. That's amazing." Christine smiled in case he looked her way (which he didn't). "BPD…"

Christine prodded, "What's that?"

He glanced up momentarily to reply, "It stands for Bronchopulmonary Dysplasia."

She questioned, "'Broncho' is airway and 'pulmonary' is…your heart in relation to your lungs?"

"Pulmonary refers to your alveoli exchanging oxygen and carbon dioxide. Very good, though!" His eyes went back to the chart. "Oh, my goodness! Grade three IVH!"

Clueless yet concerned, Christine again wondered, "What's that?"

Still regarding her chart, he murmured, "Intraventricular hemorrhage. There are four stages, with the fourth being the most severe. The ventricles are the spaces in your brain containing cerebral spinal fluid."

Christine gaped. "I had bleeding in my brain? I didn't even know that! …Wow. My parents didn't tell me much." She grinned, in awe of how little she really knew about her birth. Now, she was curious. "What else?"

"You had ROP—Retinopathy of Prematurity—which means that your retinas were detaching…hmm…stage three, apparently. Amblyopia left eye, which is a fancy way of saying that you have a lazy eye." He glanced at her, leaning in slightly for verification. She was used to doctors—particularly eye doctors—leaning in to examine her, so it didn't faze her. "You've trained it very well. You can hardly tell. It helps that you don't have strabismus—which is when the eye wanders."

This made her laugh. "It doesn't wander, but, if I'm listening to someone talk, I'll sometimes lose focus on their face. …When I was younger, the eye doctor tried to get me to wear a patch on my right eye to try and strengthen my left. I wore it for less than a day. I never wore it to school. I probably would have gotten teased if I had."

"How's your eyesight? I'm assuming that it's poor."

Her beam returned. "Right. I'm very nearsighted. I've got astigmatism, too. I'm legally blind in my left eye." She loved talking to this guy. He seemed to really understand her yet didn't go overboard with his amazement.

He smiled and nodded, returning to reading off the chart. "Your poor eyes. Let's see what else you've got here. RSV…"

She again had to ask, "What's RSV?"

"Respiratory Syncytial Virus. It's the most likely cause of any current breathing problems that you may have. It can lead to Reactive Airway Disease. Tobacco smoke can also give you it."

Mama Valerius chipped in, "Her father smoked."

"Then, I wouldn't be surprised if you have it."

"I don't think I do," Christine mused. "If I do, it's very mild."

"Well, that might be the case. Do you wheeze?" She shook her head. "Do you get upper respiratory infections easily—coughs? Do you get a lot of phlegm?" Her uneasy smile gave him his answer. "Ah. Let's see… What else here? PDA ligation." He nodded as if this were natural. Looking up to see her curious expression, he preemptively explained the term. "It stands for Patent Ductus Arteriosus ligation. The ductus arteriosus, which is in your heart, obviously, makes it possible for blood to bypass a baby's lungs while it's in the womb. When an infant is born, this closes on its own. Because of your premature birth, your ductus arteriosus stayed open, so the doctors went in and corrected that."

Christine sighed, paranoid about Erik's reaction until she realized that he wasn't in the room. Still, she felt as if he were still nearby and that, somehow, he could hear all of this. She imagined that he would ask, 'You had heart surgery?' She'd smile, but it would be that frustrated gritting of her teeth.

She officially fell in love with the kindly physician when he said, seeming to sense her thoughts, although thinking that she might be concerned, "If there were complications, they'd have occurred already. They typically occur within a few days after the procedure." He added, "Your doctors would have noticed." He tossed the matter aside to finish going over the rest. "Brovial placement in the left arm."

"That's one I actually knew about—not the term, just the cause of my scar. Because it's the easiest to see, I asked my dad, 'What's wrong with my arm?' and he explained that it was scarred from an IV from when I was a baby." Grinning, Christine extended her arm face-up and rolled up her shortened sleeve just a tiny bit, as far as it could go before getting too tight, revealing the horizontal scarring that covered the right half of the bend in her arm. The rest of it was clear skin. The doctor wasn't the only one to lean in, causing Christine to cry, "Whoa! One at a time! Mama Valerius, you've already seen it!"

"Oh, that little thing? I didn't even remember it!"

Erik tried to remember if he had ever seen the scar on her arm. He must have, but he hadn't taken note of it. He imagined rubbing his thumb against the scar tissue. It was apparently a "little thing," so it wouldn't be monstrous. It'd be delicate—like her; maybe have some puckered skin.

"That's nothing!" Mama Valerius scoffed.

She retorted, "The scar on my back isn't." She happily shifted her attention back to the physician and informed her new favorite person, "It started out as, like, an inch long, and then it grew with me. Now it's huge!" She laughed and displayed her right palm, pointing out, "I always point out this line and say it runs like this—along my shoulder blade and around my side."

"How funny! That's your heart line!"

Erik regarded his own heart line on his right hand, which he cupped with his other, tracing the line with his thumb. It was an excellent way to describe it. He could practically see it, but he didn't dare actually imagine it. Lost in his mind as he was, he just barely caught Christine crying, "Really?"

The doctor smiled and nodded. "This sloped line at the top is your heart line; the vertical one closest to your thumb is your life line. …Yours looks long. Of course, I don't believe in palmistry, but maybe it's a good sign." Since Erik wasn't in the room, he jabbed, "Maybe Erik could read your palm." He chuckled at his own joke. "Of course, he never got into palmistry, and he'd probably tell me, 'Don't be a smartass! You know they just do it for the tourists!'"

Erik cursed his friend's loosened tongue as soon as Christine perked up, curiously inquiring, "They?"

The other man had no qualms divulging, "Gypsies. Before you get too excited, you must know: gypsies don't lead romantic lives. They're afraid of outsiders but use them to make a living. They have very strict customs. Most are impoverished, which is why a lot of them steal from tourists to survive. They'll steal your nose from your face without you noticing!"

Erik pursed his lips. He wanted to call out, 'Bad phrasing!' but didn't want to reveal that he eavesdropped.

Mama Valerius prodded, "Am I to understand that Mr. Garnier traveled or at least associated with gypsies?"

How badly Erik wanted to scoff at her cold formality! It was none of her business! It wasn't even really _Christine's _business!

The doctor uneasily replied, "Yes, for a while."

Her eyes alight, Christine questioned, "He spent time with gypsies?"

A sigh gusted from him. "Child, I just warned you not to romanticize it."

Christine flinched, feeling like a little girl again—like her father had just scolded her. She couldn't bear disappointment, and she didn't like the idea of being scolded by such a kindly man. He seemed so much like her father—easygoing, generous, kind, and slow to anger. "I'm sorry. I was only curious."

"Yes, I know. I'll tell you about it some other time. I don't particularly feel like going into it." He sensed that Erik had to be nearby.

Erik clenched his jaw and his fist, seething at how much of a turncoat his supposed friend was. _'He better not tell her anything, the dirty bastard!' _

"Okay!" the young blonde replied. She shrugged and easily beamed at her new friend, who looked back at her medical history to see if he missed anything.

Lifting the top pages, he noted the sheet concerning her only other hospitalization. "Oh, my! A ruptured appendix. You had to stay over Christmas, too! Discharged on your birthday!" He tutted. "At least that must have been a nice present."

"Hmm…not really. I got discharged at, like, _seven _at night, so I didn't have much time to enjoy my birthday. Plus, in the late afternoon, I got the birthday present of my catheter removed. They said, 'There will be some discomfort,' but that was an understatement. I clutched at the candy striper's hand, gasping and crying a little—probably from shock." Widening her eyes, she briefly imitated the way that she'd done this then laughed. "I had at least four different IVs over the eight days. Things kept happening. The last one got ripped out by some guy who tripped over my IV tubing. I'd never seen my dad so angry! He ripped that guy a new one! And the first one I had! Oh! Oh, man! I'm left-handed, but they never asked me—they just stuck it in my left hand. I'd never had an IV before—at least, not that I remembered. It made me cry. I felt kind-of badly for my dad, because he seemed a little lost. He held my hand and stroked my hair…and he kept taking my dirty tissues and tossing them out for me."

"Of course," the man replied. "You were undoubtedly immobilized from the pain. Appendicitis is excruciatingly painful. I, myself, had it when I was younger. Mine didn't rupture, and I didn't have the complications that you did, but I know that it left me lying like a statue, trying not to even _breathe_!"

"YEAH! That's exactly how I felt! And I was lying at home for, like, three days before my dad took me to the ER. He didn't even take me to the ER right away—he took me to a clinic, because we didn't have insurance. It was really embarrassing, because I was wearing a dress, and I had a guy doctor. He poked my, uhh…abdomen and asked if it hurt. And then he asked me if I was on my period! I had an ultrasound, and he told my dad that I had appendicitis. I had no clue what that was. I just knew that we had to go to the ER. I didn't even realize that it meant that I was going to have surgery. I realized that I was going to stay when a nurse handed me a gown to change into."

The doctor smiled sympathetically then suggested, "I believe the word you want is 'palpated'. He palpated your abdomen. It's much gentler than poke." He shook his head. "Three days… You should have gone in after it hadn't cleared up after a few hours."

"Yeah, well…we didn't. My dad beat himself up for it, and then he beat himself up for the fact that he couldn't spend all of his time with me—because he had to work. He was with me on Christmas Eve, so that was nice. He got to watch me cry when my friend Meg and her mom called me and started singing Christmas carols. They thought it'd cheer me up. It just depressed me." She crinkled her nose but smiled.

He warily inquired, "Where is your father now?"

"My parents are both dead. My father passed a few years ago from lung cancer. My mom died when I was six—car accident."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She shrugged and smiled again. "It's okay. Life happens. Well, _death _happens, actually."

His brow furrowed, and he semi-fondly remarked, "You're definitely a survivor."

Christine grinned. "My dad used to say that." She was a heartbeat away from subconsciously solidifying her newfound doctor as her father figure.

"Your father must have been a smart man."

"He was."

His attention returned to the chart. "Hmm. You're allergic to Augmentin. Just to let you know, that means that you're allergic to Penicillin."

Christine gaped. That sounded bad. "Really?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Hmm. Bummer."

She made him chuckle. After one last look at her documentation for her appendectomy, he closed the folder and set it aside. "If you don't mind, I'd like to measure your height, weight, and blood pressure. I'd also like to listen to your heart and lungs. Standard check-up stuff."

As he measured her height and weight, careful not to read the latter aloud lest it embarrass her, he asked about her musical tastes, which got her grinning.

"I'm a big dork. I like classical and opera."

"Of course you do."

She frowned then smiled bemusedly. "What does that mean?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Who's your favorite composer?"

"Umm…hmm…I don't know. Depends on the instrument, I guess, but, in general, I like Chopin, Debussy, Saint-Saëns, Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms, Rachmaninov…a lot. Most recently, Mendelssohn." She smiled at the thought of Erik's performance. "Erik showed me this recording of when he was at Juilliard, and I—!"

She looked down as a pen fell to the floor. The man bent to retrieve it. "Excuse me. My pen slipped." When he straightened, he prodded, "You were saying?" Erik rolled his eyes. That wasn't very smooth.

"Umm… Oh! He played this _beautiful _Mendelssohn concerto. Oh, it was love at first, uhh…sound! Haha!" She swore that she felt Erik nearby, which gave her chills that weren't necessarily unpleasant. "His violin is beautiful. Is it still the same one as when he was at Juilliard?" She couldn't remember.

"Yes," the doctor replied through his daze, "though he has two different ones. He keeps a great many instruments in my house—mostly the ones that are too large to fit in his apartment, such as his organ, harp, and cello—oh, and the grand."

Erik felt dizzy. Had she said what he thought she just said? She'd said it so flippantly that it was hard to tell. He assumed that he had misheard her. He was so dazed that he barely caught himself in time to hear his mentor help Christine back onto the table.

She smiled as she gave his hand a quick squeeze, thanking him. In an instant, her hand slid away. She shifted, causing the paper to crinkle.

Erik heard the noise, and all he could think about was kneeling so that he could hold her hands as he had the night before. That had been heavenly. He had to force his eyes to focus elsewhere, away from his own hands. The desire nauseated him.

Unfortunately, the hall was rather devoid of interesting things to look at. He settled for picturing his mentor, imaging him quite accurately as the elderly male regarded his wristwatch, his two fingers taking Christine's pulse in her wrist. Their dialogue certainly helped his imagination.

"Your heart rate's a little fast."

She huffed. "Sorry. I get nervous during medical exams."

"I noticed. Try to relax while I'm taking your blood pressure. We want as accurate a reading as possible."

She nodded, but she knew that she wouldn't truly be able to relax.

"If you could roll up your sleeve for me…"

Her outfit choice now irritated her, because her sleeve was too tight to roll up enough.

"That's fine. I can take it over the sleeve."

She tugged it down so that it was as smooth as possible, hoping that it wouldn't make too much of a difference. Her nose crinkled as he attached the blood pressure cuff to her arm. She hated the way that it squeezed almost as much as she hated getting blood drawn. "I think that—!"

"Sorry, dear, but could you not speak? Speaking affects blood pressure, and I want an accurate reading."

"Oh! Sorry! I didn't realize!"

He soothed, "That's all right. We'll just start over." Now she had to feel that squeeze again because she'd been an idiot and talked.

Her doctor sighed, informing her that her blood pressure was a bit high. She grimaced, sucking back an apology.

When the procedure finished, she restated, "I think I have a phobia of needles. I gave blood semi-recently, and my palms were shiny and wet with sweat. The lady drawing my blood told me that I was shaking. I hadn't really realized it. I hadn't watched, obviously, but it still bothered me. It didn't help that she kind-of butchered my arm. I have really sucky veins, which I learned when I had the appendicitis. I ate and drank plenty for the donation, but, as soon as I left, I cried for almost fifteen minutes straight."

"Luckily for you, I have no need to draw blood or give you an injection. You're in the clear."

She grinned. "Thanks."

"I do, however, need to listen to your heart and lungs. If you don't mind, I'll be sticking the stethoscope under your shirt to hear better."

"Oh! No problem!" She double-checked that her shirt was open enough. He assured her that it was fine as it was, the first three buttons undone. Again, she got anxious; her heart thudded away quickly.

The doctor sighed as he pulled back. "For future reference, you might want to work on relaxing during an exam."

"Sorry."

"It's all right. It just concerns me, because it leads to inaccurate readings. We don't want to misdiagnosis you."

Christine sighed. "I'm just bad around medical stuff, I guess."

"I don't blame you. You have plenty of reason to be traumatized."

She offered up, "I got poked so many times with needles during my appendicitis incident that I joked with my dad, 'If I had a dollar for every hole in me, I'd be rich!' Hmph. He actually paid me."

Chuckling, he inquired, "How much?"

"I think the final count was sixty—sixty-one, if I recall correctly. I got my blood drawn a lot. Oh! You know what was funny? I'm sure it probably says on my chart, but I had to have an NG tube to get rid of bile or whatever, and the nurse said, 'The other nurses are going to make fun of me, but I'm going to use the smallest size we have. It's the size that we use for preemies!' I told her that I was a preemie, and she went, 'Oh! Perfect!' …I thought that was funny. Sorry. I'll shut up now."

The kind man smiled. "That's all right. I don't mind. Since I'll probably become your primary physician, I'd like to get to know you better. …I'm surprised that you know the medical names. Do you know what they called the bag hooked up to you by the catheter?"

"A JP drain. It was to drain all the poisonous fluids from my abdomen. They had to drain it when it got full. It was not cute. It smelled pretty bad. Of course, since I couldn't really shower, I smelled bad in general. My hair was all greasy. It was not attractive.

"One time, I went to take my lap around the hall—because everybody told me that I had to get exercise after the surgery—and, umm…the bag tugged on me, because it was full." She grimaced. "I thought it was gonna rip my skin or fall out or something. I went back to bed and asked a nurse to drain it. And man, I'm sure you know what I mean, because you said that you had it before, but even just walking to the adjoined bathroom was hard. More than once, I wondered, 'Do I really have to go?'"

He laughed and nodded in agreement. "Yes, I remember that feeling. Were your stitches biodegradable?"

"Yes! I was so happy when the doctor removed the tape and said that what I saw wasn't stitches: it was build-up or whatever from the tape. When I could take a shower again, I was so happy, because, when I originally got home from the hospital, I had to enlist the help of my friend's mom to wash me. It was embarrassing."

"Well, at least you asked for help. …You're a very bright girl."

She grinned and shrugged. "I read up a lot. Plus, my grandpa was a D.O. and got me interested in medical stuff. Apparently, he did cranial work on me to correct the shape of my head while it was still…malleable." This greatly intrigued Erik.

"That makes sense. All the time that you had to spend in the incubator probably changed the shape of your head."

Christine laughed. "There's a picture of me in the incubator where I swear my head looks like a toaster! God bless my grandpa for fixing my malformed head! …I wish he were still alive. He was quite brilliant, and he always had interesting things to say. If it weren't for the fact that I'm kind-of squeamish and lazy, I'd probably go into the medical field. Wouldn't that be something? A premature baby growing up to become a doctor—probably a pediatrician, maybe even in the NICU."

"That would be something."

Erik was still reeling from the simple word "squeamish," leaving him unable to enjoy the latter portion of their discussion. He'd seen her be "squeamish" with the laryngoscopy. How much worse would she be with his face?

When he eventually pushed past it, he decided that Christine would make a lovely doctor. She'd be kind and compassionate. He imagined that her touch could be classified as "healing". It certainly felt like a healing touch; whenever her hand went to him, his whole body relaxed. Still, he was glad that this wasn't her path. He could selfishly keep her close to him in the world of music.

Breathing in and releasing as she was told, the stethoscope on top of the back of her shirt, Christine wondered about Erik. She rather hoped that he had hung around, because she wanted to talk to him. She liked to think that he had stayed nearby, because, all of a sudden, she didn't mind him knowing her medical history. She liked that it would bring them closer. It was the easiest way to find out. If he hadn't heard, that would mean that she would have to tell him, and she didn't like the thought of that.

She smiled, wondering what went through his head. She couldn't resist prodding when the stethoscope moved away for a second, _"À quoi pensez-vous?" _'About what are you thinking?' She knew that he wasn't in the room, which made her appear insane, but she didn't care.

Separate as they were, both males startled, their eyes wide at the sudden French. Erik recovered more quickly, his mentor having just managed not to drop the stethoscope. The former was impressed that she used inversion while the latter gaped at the fact that she spoke French at all. She had no way of knowing that the good doctor spoke a little French, which had to mean that she spoke to Erik—which thrilled him.

If he were at liberty to speak to her, he'd answer her with,_ 'Pas trop. J'aime l'idée que tu deviennes médecin.' _'Not much. I like the idea of you becoming a doctor.' He might even mention the last part the next moment that he saw her—if he could get away with it. He had no idea if she'd be displeased or not at his eavesdropping, but she seemed to speak to him, which had to mean that she secretly entertained the idea.

The doctor inquired, "You speak French?"

Christine grinned. "A little. I've been learning it at school. I'm actually the president of the French Club."

"Ah." He nodded, his heart racing. He didn't feel very well. As much as he pitied Erik, he worried for this innocent girl who seemed to have no idea how easily she endeared herself to her teacher. "Have you mentioned this to Erik?"

She laughed. "Of course! He tutors me in French—among other languages."

"That's right, yes. He's tutoring you for opera. He did mention that."

She couldn't resist asking, "What else did he say about me?"

Knowing that Erik had to be nearby, he felt uneasy as he divulged the truth. "He's quite fond of you. He thinks that you're very sweet and bright." He really wanted to warn her not to be too sweet, but it seemed too late, and he couldn't find the courage to speak when Erik had to be in the vicinity. Therefore, he tried to play it off as, "He's very fond of music, so it makes sense that he would be fond of your voice."

Christine smiled and nodded, taking it as 'Erik likes you for your voice; that's why he's fond of you'. Forgetting herself, she blurted, "I think he…I think he's lonely. I mean, it's obvious, because he lives alone—from what I gathered." Her mind warned her not to divulge that she had been to his apartment—especially with Mama Valerius in the room. "If I can brighten his day, alleviate some of his loneliness, I'm happy."

Erik thought he might have a heart attack from joy. He couldn't breathe. 

_'I knew it! I knew that she loved me!' _

He was so happy that he felt dizzy. Of course, that could be from the fact that he wasn't breathing. His chest was tight with giddiness.

The doctor smiled but groaned on the inside. This was bad; this was dangerous. "You're a very warmhearted, compassionate girl, Miss Daaé." _I hope that this doesn't spell trouble. _He knew that he would need to be on his guard. "Erik could use a friend, I'll admit, but perhaps you two should keep things as they are for now—you know, as student and teacher. I don't think that it's very wise for you to…" His fear choked him. He knew that Erik would be furious, so he softened his statement. "…for you to get too close. After all, you're only in high school. You should be able to focus on more frivolous things in life, such as having fun with friends and worrying about homework." _You shouldn't have to shoulder the responsibility of Erik's love, of being Erik's only tie to humanity. _

Mama Valerius beamed. She loved this man! "Exactly! You took the words right from my mouth!"

Christine was hurt and quite offended—not to mention disgusted. "Are you saying that I shouldn't be Erik's friend?"

"I'm saying," he nearly sighed, "that you should focus on the present—focus on your lessons."

Her brow furrowed, and she pursed her lips. She just barely kept her anger in check. "So, I should just use him for lessons and not be his friend?"

Erik mentally cheered her on. _'Yeah! Take that!' _He kept his cackling locked in his heart.

The doctor put his hand on Christine's shoulder, soothing, "Sweetheart, you're not using him. If you pay him, which I assume that you do, then that is compensation. You're not taking advantage of him; you're working with him, learning from him. He wants to help you with your career. That's what you pay him for." _And if he knows what's good for him, then he'll be content with that._

Christine looked into the man's eyes. Suddenly, she began to wonder how her father would feel about Erik. Would her father like him? Would he approve? Would he be against the two of them being friends outside of their lessons? Staring into those dark eyes, she spoke in Swedish without thought.

"Pardon?" the Middle Eastern man questioned.

She smiled helplessly and shook her head. She couldn't even vocalize what she wanted to ask, because the question had been meant for her father: _Would you stop me? _She couldn't answer it. She knew her father, but she couldn't imagine how he would react to the situation. He probably wouldn't be pleased if she were in a relationship with Erik, but she didn't know how he might feel about just friendship.

Meanwhile, Erik longed to know what she had said in Swedish. His mind whirred so fast that he didn't stop to think of _why _she spoke in Swedish; it didn't occur to him that she had unconsciously taken on his mentor as her new father figure.

Shaking his head, the physician instructed his patient that he needed to finish the exam.

"Oh! Sorry!" She sat up a little.

"Breathe in one last time…and out." Finished, he draped the stethoscope around his neck again. "Your breath sounds are fairly good, but I can hear how your airways are a little tight."

Christine remarked, "Good thing I'm getting the inhaler, then, huh?"

"Indeed."

Without warning, a coughing fit came upon her. She gasped after it. She surmised that it was from all the deep breathing that she had to do.

In the blink of an eye, the doctor returned with the inhaler, pulling the cap off the end. With his hand on her back, he offered to demonstrate how she used it. She nodded even as she coughed a little more. He held it for her, shaking it before instructing, "You always want to shake it first. Drop your jaw like you're singing."

Erik muttered to himself, "That's not going to help. She's terrible about dropping her jaw."

Christine's eyes went to the door. Her hearing wasn't that sharp, but her heart sensed Erik nearby. She felt as if he had just spoken, which made her smile.

The physician said, "I could press it for you this time." Anxious about doing it incorrectly, the patient nodded and dropped her jaw. She didn't realize at first that her tongue automatically went to the bottom of her mouth; when she did, she felt proud—like Erik would be pleased with her for it. However, Christine hoped that the process would happen quickly, because she felt the need to cough again.

"On three, I want you to breathe in—and breathe in for about three to five seconds. You will then hold your breath for ten seconds to ensure that the medicine soaks in." She nodded again. "Ready? One…two…three!" The doctor counted the seconds for her inhalation on his watch then started the new count for holding her breath. "And release! Good!" He rubbed her back. "It will take about fifteen minutes for you to really feel the effect, but it will last a few hours. Now, come over to the sink." They migrated. "You'll want to gargle some water or mouthwash every time you use it. It will help prevent side effects." He listed off the side effects, such as headache or throat irritation, then suggested that she'd benefit most from using a spacer.

After gargling some water, which nearly made her gag because she hated tap water, Christine watched as he grabbed a plastic attachment and demonstrated how to use it—without actually using it. He warned, "You want to conserve your medicine. If you use the inhaler too much, it reduces effectiveness."

"Okay."

"That about does it. I'll pack all this up for you, and then you'll be free to go."

She grinned, finally relaxing completely. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He passed off a small box that contained both the inhaler and the spacer.

Christine realized something horrible: she was so needy that she wanted to hug her new doctor. Horrified to find that hugging people was a compulsion, she merely smiled, grabbed her bag, and hurried to the door, offering one last thank you…only it came out in Swedish: _Tack_. A bemused smile appeared as she furrowed her brows. "I have no idea why I just thanked you in Swedish! Weird!" For a moment, though, it felt like her father had been in the room.

She'd been to a doctor during a vacation to Sweden because of how she scraped her leg on a bike ride gone wrong. Insult to injury, it happened because she'd run into something that she hadn't seen due to her reduced peripheral vision. It left her bleeding, but the wound was shallow and didn't leave a scar.

Thinking about this got her randomly exclaiming, "Oh, hey! I have a question!"

"Yes?"

"Umm…I have a scar on my left thigh that I don't know where it's from. I remember having it as a kid, but I might have had it longer. I thought it was from when a dog mowed me down in the backyard at a neighbor's when I was five or six, but it's kind-of a weird formation for that. It's kind-of like a small, capital I."

The doctor offered, "It's probably from an IV when you were in the NICU."

"Oh. That makes sense." A smile bloomed. "Thanks! That's all I was wondering! Have a good day!"

"Have a good day." He then called out, afraid that Erik would dash off, "–And Erik! Expect me over tonight around six. If I have to, I'll use my key, but I'd prefer it if I didn't have to resort to coming all the way into your music room to silence your music long enough for you to notice me." He didn't like alerting the women to the fact that Erik hung around, but it needed to be said. He was tired of forcing Erik to take notice of him.

Erik snickered from his spot. "Duly noted!" Now he'd probably do it just to annoy him.

"All right. Miss Daaé, it was a pleasure meeting you. Call me if you have any questions about anything."

She grinned, taking this as an invitation to ask about Erik at the next opportunity. "I will. Thank you." They shook hands. She again noted that his hand was warm and soft. Quite cheerful, she practically skipped out of the office but managed to keep it to a normal gait. She beamed at Erik on her way past him. Left in the room, Mama Valerius shook the doctor's hand and thanked him, quickly taking off after Christine before Erik could have the chance to get her alone.

Erik lingered long enough to hear his friend say from within the room, "I see why you like her now." He didn't even bother to reply; he just left, leaving the open door and the knowing silence behind him.

* * *

**A/N: Whoa. Long chapter. The juicy stuff comes next time! **

**: 3 **

**Also, my grandpa's a D.O. and now I have to knock on wood, hoping that I haven't somehow jinxed him. He's getting older, though. I think he's in his eighties…and still practicing osteopathy and medicine. **

**0.o **

**Amazing man. He's super healthy, too, except for some back problems and losing some of his hearing—but that's to be expected from old age. **

**Please review! **

**Kagome-chan **


	10. History: Part II

**A/N: Hello, all! Allow me to apologize for the delay, but it worked out for the better, because I was tweaking later chapters, and something happened that made me come back and edit this one, which made it better (I think). Lol. **

**Also, this chapter is not beta-read (I waited for my beta, but she never answered me), so please excuse any errors. **

**That being said, while there might be delays in updating (due to difficulties reaching my beta for editing), this story is completed. Huzzah! I have it all written offline. It's quite long, so if you don't like long, rambling stories you should back out now. Hehe. **

**For those of you who read chapter nine before I edited it, for those who may not have re-read it, here are some things that you may have missed that bear importance for the rest of the story: **

**First of all, Erik wasn't in the exam room (because that would be illegal). Instead, he eavesdropped. Muahaha! **

**I suggest that those of you who didn't should go read over the changes to ch 9. Nonetheless, this is perhaps the most significant change: **

The doctor inquired, "You speak French?"

Christine grinned. "A little. I've been learning it at school. I'm actually the president of the French Club."

"Ah." He nodded, his heart racing. He didn't feel very well. As much as he pitied Erik, he worried for this innocent girl who seemed to have no idea how easily she endeared herself to her teacher. "Have you mentioned this to Erik?"

She laughed. "Of course! He tutors me in French—among other languages."

"That's right, yes. He's tutoring you for opera. He did mention that."

She couldn't resist asking, "What else did he say about me?"

Knowing that Erik had to be nearby, he felt uneasy as he divulged the truth. "He's quite fond of you. He thinks that you're very sweet and bright." He really wanted to warn her not to be too sweet, but it seemed too late, and he couldn't find the courage to speak when Erik had to be in the vicinity. Therefore, he tried to play it off as, "He's very fond of music, so it makes sense that he would be fond of your voice."

Christine smiled and nodded, taking it as 'Erik likes you for your voice; that's why he's fond of you'. Forgetting herself, she blurted, "I think he…I think he's lonely. I mean, it's obvious, because he lives alone—from what I gathered." Her mind warned her not to divulge that she had been to his apartment—especially with Mama Valerius in the room. "If I can brighten his day, alleviate some of his loneliness, I'm happy."

Erik thought he might have a heart attack from joy. He couldn't breathe.

'_I knew it! I knew that she loved me!' _

He was so happy that he felt dizzy. Of course, that could be from the fact that he wasn't breathing. His chest was tight with giddiness.

The doctor smiled but groaned on the inside. This was bad; this was dangerous. "You're a very warmhearted, compassionate girl, Miss Daaé." _I hope that this doesn't spell trouble. _He knew that he would need to be on his guard. "Erik could use a friend, I'll admit, but perhaps you two should keep things as they are for now—you know, as student and teacher. I don't think that it's very wise for you to…" His fear choked him. He knew that Erik would be furious, so he softened his statement. "…for you to get too close. After all, you're only in high school. You should be able to focus on more frivolous things in life, such as having fun with friends and worrying about homework." _You shouldn't have to shoulder the responsibility of Erik's love, of being Erik's only tie to humanity. _

Mama Valerius beamed. She loved this man! "Exactly! You took the words right from my mouth!"

Christine was hurt and quite offended—not to mention disgusted. "Are you saying that I shouldn't be Erik's friend?"

"I'm saying," he nearly sighed, "that you should focus on the present—focus on your lessons."

Her brow furrowed, and she pursed her lips. She just barely kept her anger in check. "So, I should just use him for lessons and not be his friend?"

Erik mentally cheered her on. _'Yeah! Take that!' _He kept his cackling locked in his heart.

The doctor put his hand on Christine's shoulder, soothing, "Sweetheart, you're not using him. If you pay him, which I assume that you do, then that is compensation. You're not taking advantage of him; you're working with him, learning from him. He wants to help you with your career. That's what you pay him for." _And if he knows what's good for him, then he'll be content with that._

Christine looked into the man's eyes. Suddenly, she began to wonder how her father would feel about Erik. Would her father like him? Would he approve? Would he be against the two of them being friends outside of their lessons? Staring into those dark eyes, she spoke in Swedish without thought.

"Pardon?" the Middle Eastern man questioned.

She smiled helplessly and shook her head. She couldn't even vocalize what she wanted to ask, because the question had been meant for her father: _Would you stop me? _She couldn't answer it. She knew her father, but she couldn't imagine how he would react to the situation. He probably wouldn't be pleased if she were in a relationship with Erik, but she didn't know how he might feel about just friendship.

Meanwhile, Erik longed to know what she had said in Swedish. His mind whirred so fast that he didn't stop to think of _why _she spoke in Swedish; it didn't occur to him that she had unconsciously taken on his mentor as her new father figure.

Shaking his head, the physician instructed his patient that he needed to finish the exam.

**That being said, enjoy the story! **

* * *

Chapter Ten: History: Part II

Erik caught up with the pair right as they exited the clinic. Forgetting that it was bad to reveal that he eavesdropped, he demanded, "So, is that all you were keeping from me? Your medical history?"

Christine sighed. "This is what I was afraid of."

He questioned with a frown, "What do you mean?"

"I didn't want you to know, because I didn't want you getting overly concerned."

He retorted, "Heart surgery is pretty major. It's natural to feel concern after hearing it. Not everyone realizes that you're fine."

Mama Valerius opened her mouth to object to the fact that he apparently listened in on their very private examination, but Christine pressed right on, complaining, "That's why I always make a point—if I tell people—to say it as, 'I had surgery to close a valve that's supposed to close on its own. I'm fine now.'" His head shook seemingly of its own accord, and she jabbed, "I'd say we're even. I never told you about this; you never tell me anything. Of course, now that you know about me, I'm at a disadvantage, because you pretty much know everything about me, and I know nothing about you." She turned to her guardian, requesting, "I'm pretty hungry. Let's go grab some lunch."

Erik gaped. There it was again: that thorny, subtle anger. It so easily got under his skin. He got her to pause and look at him by starting, "I…" When he had her attention, he admitted, "I'm not comfortable talking about myself. I don't want pity."

"Neither do I. That's why I never tell people about my medical history."

He challenged, "I get pity; you get adoration."

"Ha! Okay."

"You do! Everyone hears your story and finds it amazing. No one _pities_ you."

She pointed out, "They pity me when they find out about my parents."

He smiled, conceding, "Okay. I'll give you that."

"Heh. Thanks. That's generous of you." They grinned at each other. Erik noted that her anger really was short-lived. "Wanna come to lunch?" Mama Valerius pinched her back in warning.

Uncomfortable, Erik mumbled, "I don't eat out. In fact, I rarely go out."

"You're out now! Why not stay out? You'll be coming over anyway for my lesson. Why not enjoy a lunch out?"

He shook his head. "No, thank you; I'll just meet you at your house."

Christine sighed but agreed, "Okay. See you then. Have a good afternoon…until I see you next." She laughed a little. It made him smile. He was quite relieved that she no longer harbored any ill sentiments toward him.

"I will."

* * *

Erik couldn't resist remarking while he set up the music stand, _"J'aime l'idée que tu deviennes médecin. Tu es très gentille." _'I like the idea of you becoming a doctor. You're very nice.'

Surprised at the sudden French but not displeased, Christine smiled and replied, _"Ce n'est pas pour moi. Je suis chanteuse." _'That's not for me. I'm a singer.' She knew that she should be upset that he eavesdropped, but she found herself flattered instead.

"_Bien sûr!" _'Of course!'

While Mama Valerius frowned at all the French, Erik hoped that Christine would continue to speak it. He found her accent adorable. It was mostly American, but there was a hint of Swedish to it. All in all, her accent was quite light; her pronunciation was very good.

Getting a bit shy (and even lazy) about her French, Christine blushed and reverted to English. Erik tried not to let his disappointment show.

"You know, for a little while, because I have trouble with my upper register, I thought that I was a mezzo-soprano. Having that one teacher made me realize that I'm a soprano."

Erik scolded, "You should have realized that you weren't a mezzo when you found that you choked on low notes."

Giggles escaped her. "You know, in choir, at school, the altos have a joke with the first sopranos—'Go choke on a low note!'"

"That reminds me: In what section are you for your school choir?"

"Second soprano."

He conceded, "That's fine. It'll at least help you with ear training."

Christine sighed. "I do love melody, though. I'm not big on singing harmony—I love it when other people sing it with me, but I don't like being the one to sing the harmony; I'd rather sing the melody."

This got him grinning. "A leading lady if ever I heard one!"

Blushing, she laughed and shook her head. "No!"

Erik regarded her like she was crazy. "Excuse me? I'm not going to train you just for you to end up in the chorus or mediocre parts. If that's what you want, you're wasting my time!"

Her lips parted, and she stared at him. She couldn't think of what to say, so she offered, "Maybe I'll feel differently when I'm older."

"You will. Once you have confidence in yourself, you'll want the spotlight." She giggled and shook her head at the thought of conceitedly desiring the spotlight. Noting this, Erik added, "Right now, once we get some proper technique into you, we'll find venues for you to sing in—to build your confidence. You're too used to hiding in choirs. You need to come out of the shadows and let everyone see you."

Christine smiled, bemused at the irony. Erik seemed like the type to hide in the shadows more than she. Meanwhile, Mama Valerius was quite irritable at the fact that she agreed with him. It didn't seem fair that she could go back and forth between like and dislike, between trust and distrust.

* * *

Even with the addition of languages, the lesson seemed to fly by.

Christine felt like jumping and down with excitement. She liked the correction of "What I want you to feel is that you're not _pushing _air; you're _pulling _air. You're not, but it will keep the inhalation muscles working against the exhalation muscles so that you're not losing air, leaking air."

She also liked when he said after some warm-ups, "When I tell you 'That's right,' don't memorize what you heard; memorize what you _feel_."

She loved all the new knowledge gleaned from just one lesson—such as how one should roll one's R's when singing in French (as well as Italian and German) for classical songs or how "above an E, you become Italian" to prevent the nasal sound. She repeated in her mind the example that Erik gave her: _'__**"Longtemps"**__ becomes "la-ta"'. _

In general, her vowels got picked apart piece by piece. She thought that she was good at making her vowels rich and long, but Erik honed in on her pronunciation even more.

Aside from the Italian _"Caro Mio Ben," _they had started on a French song: _"Villanelle" _by Eva Dell'Acqua. In her opinion, it was way over her head, but Erik seemed to want to challenge her, and he seemed to believe that she could handle it. She wasn't so sure, but she trusted his judgment, so she went with it. This was how he got on the subject on rolling one's R's while singing in French.

She was quite disappointed in herself. She just couldn't relax her jaw, and her mouth preferred staying closed to opening. Her shyness was to blame; because of it she "mumbled" through song. She knewthat she was airy and weak. It disgusted her. It also surprised her. She was normally so confident with her singing. Suddenly, isolated and critiqued, she was meek. Erik intimidated her; he sucked the confidence right out of her just by looking at her. She hoped that, someday, she'd get comfortable around him and that maybe it'd be the opposite—maybe he'd give her confidence instead of taking it.

It embarrassed her that Erik picked at her French, dissecting every syllable. She felt frustrated and ashamed that he had to remind her that _"vu" _(the past participle of the verb "to see") was pronounced quite differently from _"vous"_. He stated this as "It's _'J'ai vu passer' _and not _'J'ai vous'_. It's 'I saw' and not 'I have you'." The avid French student (and perfectionist) in her wanted to punch something. She hated herself for failing to carry her good pronunciation into song.

Erik remarked, "You look angry."

She laughed. "I'm not angry. I'm just…frustrated with myself. I can say it, which makes it ridiculous that I'm having trouble _singing _it."

He agreed, "It's the same language." His pupil whimpered, and he chuckled. "You'll get it."

She nodded, but her frustration grew as she failed to grasp it.

Erik reminded her, "It's _'vu,' _not _'vous'_!" for at least the third time, making her want to stab something. They sang the first line over and over and _over_ until he was satisfied with the pronunciation. "You must sectionalize. Once you have one part down, and only then, you move on to the next and connect it all together."

In this moment, she was pretty sure that she didn't like Erik. She forced herself to keep in mind that it was the hard work that was getting to her and not Erik himself.

To make matters worse, she squeaked on notes that she knew that she could hit—such as the G on the final syllable (_"le"_) of _"à tire-d'aile"_. Erik had to remind her to slide, which was still new to her. She squeaked on anything above an E.

"Release your chin! Don't lock your jaw!"

Along with Erik's reminder, she told herself to slide. The reason she squeaked was because she her cords weren't adducting properly.

She hated the song for being too hard. She hated that Erik had her speak the lines so that he could hear her pronunciation. It was so embarrassing!

Little did she know, she would later perfect it and triumph with it in a little less than a year—and again a few months after that. Her high notes would become lovely, especially the staccato section that she so loathed at this point and her cadenza. She would even take the optional embellishments instead of the simpler parts.

She didn't dare say so, but she abhorred the English song that Erik picked out for her—also in _The Second Book of Soprano Solos_. She thought "The Sun Whose Rays" was a stupid song. She hadn't seen the musical _The Mikaido_, so she had no context for it. Therefore, the song seemed dumb. It didn't help matters that she was horrible about opening up, so her high notes were closed off and not attractive. Plus, her tempo was all over the place, leaving Erik to slow down his accompaniment so that they crept by measure by measure after her initial sight-reading.

She got her biggest correction on both songs: her jaw was too tight. On the lighter side, she got the amusing correction of "It looks more natural if you show your top teeth instead of pulling your lip down over them."

While his tone amused her, she didn't want to admit that she was uncomfortable with her teeth. Her top row wasn't that bad, but her bottom row used to have crowding. Before she lucked into meeting the Valerius couple, she rarely saw a dentist (due to her father's lack of funds). What Erik saw now came after a couple of years of braces—thankfully, the ceramic kind. Her two front teeth were actually veneers. She was still paranoid that her old, stained teeth somehow showed through. The rest of her teeth weren't bad, but these two had weird flecks on them—hence, the need for veneers. With all this in mind, she found it ironic that so many people told her that she had a pretty smile. Even when her teeth hadn't been fixed, she received this compliment, which fascinated and confounded her. Were people blind? Did her optimism and pretty eyes blind them? Is that all they saw when they noticed her smiling? It didn't compute.

Erik insisted that she'd improve, but, at this point, she was quite down on herself. With her experience with the two choirs, she expected herself to be more advanced than she was. It was frustrating to find herself weaker and more ignorant than she imagined.

The experience was humbling. It made her realize that she had so much to learn, and that she shouldn't be so full of herself. She had no reason to be cocky about her voice, because she knew nothing about it. She had no right to judge other voices—or to giggle at weaker singers. Erik had pointed out this very lesson that what made singing hard was that the instrument was internal, and the singer couldn't hear what others heard. To her, this translated dismally as: _You're not as good as you think you are. _

It was quite funny: she went in thinking that she would impress Erik with her knowledge only to find that she knew nothing. While she could sing her heart out when alone, she was meek when singing for someone else—particularly for someone whose very purpose was to critique her. Her lack of confidence got her thinking that she really didn't think much of her voice. True, she giggled (and grimaced) at weaker singers, but, ultimately, she didn't value her voice. She blushed and got awkward whenever someone complimented her on it. She didn't consider her voice something special.

Soon, it was time for Erik to leave again, and she knew that she couldn't entice him to stay longer because he had to get back to have dinner at his place. Thus, she let him go with a hug and wishes for a pleasant evening.

"You, too. Maybe next time we'll have a violin lesson as well."

Her nose crinkled. "Maybe. I might be too nervous. I still need to get used to playing on my own before I get back in the swing of lessons."

"Understandable. I won't rush you. Take your time, and let me know when you're ready."

A smile bloomed, her lips pressing together sweetly. "I will. See you tomorrow."

_"À demain."_ He grinned. It never failed to make her smile.

* * *

The knock on his door arrived at exactly six. Sighing, Erik stepped out of the tiny kitchen and admitted his guest. The conversation that he dreaded began once they sat at the pathetic little table (which he had cleared off for the occasion) and ate.

"So, she speaks French—and Swedish. She likes classical music and opera; she wants to be an opera singer, and she's not physically perfect. Hmm. Anything else?"

Erik muttered before taking a bite of mashed potato, "Her father was a violinist, so he taught her how to play. She also plays flute and piano."

His friend smiled wryly. "Of course. …And she likes a lot of your favorite composers."

"Plenty of people like them. They're some of the most famous composers."

A sigh escaped him. "I hope you're keeping in mind that she's seventeen."

"I am. …I'm not in love with her." When he got a snort of disbelief, he insisted, "I'm not!" The lie tasted bitter.

"She's the very definition of your perfect girl, and yet you claim that you're not in love with her. I suppose it's better if you're in denial so that you don't go breaking any laws. When you come around to it, I suggest waiting until she's at least out of high school—possibly even until she's in her twenties." He knew that there was no stopping it, so he might as well do some buffering.

Erik shook his head. "I'll just wait until I find the right moment. She already loves me. Didn't you hear her? 'Love at first sound!'" He grinned.

This disconcerted him. "Erik…I think she meant that to be quite flippant. Besides, she said that without knowing that you were _eavesdropping _on her! She's a friendly girl, so be careful not to misconstrue any affection she does offer you. She's still a child. She doesn't know what she wants.

"You have to set boundaries. I know that this is asking a lot of you considering your immaturity, but you have to be the adult. You can't let things get out of hand. I don't think she will, but if she _does _proclaim any sort of feelings for you, I'd keep your distance—at least until she's eighteen. Even then, it's risky, because, like I said, she can't possibly know what she wants. She's a very young girl. I can tell that she's very naïve. Just…be careful."

Erik chose to pretend to listen while really ignoring this sound advice. Christine loved him, and that was that. He'd wait until she graduated high school, but that was as long as he would wait. He might not even be able to wait beyond her eighteenth birthday. He didn't have anything sexual in mind, though the idea was tempting; he just wanted to start to ease her into the idea of being in a relationship with him. That wasn't so bad, was it?

The other man sighed. It was clear to see that Erik wasn't going to listen to him. Rather than spoil their evening together by bringing up the obvious fact of Erik's time in Paris (and that Christine really knew nothing about him), he chose to keep things pleasant by discussing some of the more interesting or entertaining cases that came into his clinic, keeping things generic so as to protect the privacy of his patients.

Following dinner, he had Erik lie on the floor by the door (since it allowed for the most space) so that he could work on him. The bed wouldn't provide enough of a firm surface for his treatment. He let Erik remove his things himself before the skeletal male lay face-up upon the floor. After cracking his patient's back, with Erik's elbows crossed, he started with some deep tissue at Erik's neck and shoulders, working his way up to the suboccipital. There, his fingers rubbed at the base of his skull, digging in using a circular motion. It wasn't long before he got to the things that would really help: cracking Erik's neck and resting his hands so that they applied gentle pressure to his sinuses, draining them through soft manipulation. He worked in silence, wanting Erik to be relaxed (which he would not be if the physician engaged him in conversation, because any conversation that they might have would inevitably end up with Erik on the defensive).

Erik breathed a sigh of relief as soon as he was alone in his apartment. As he cleaned up the table, he smiled, choosing to pretend that he'd just had dinner with Christine instead. She hadn't said much—because she liked to eat in quiet, and he easily respected that. They ate comfortably without much conversation. He made himself laugh by pretending that she offered to help him with the dishes. He sensed that she'd be the type to do so. He'd decline. She'd get bored with nothing to do, so she'd sing or hum while he rinsed off their dishes.

He got so into his fantasy that he began to believe it and looked up to talk to Christine. He found himself surprised to find her gone. He even went to look for her. It took far too long for him to remember that she wasn't really with him.

Wishing that he had her cell phone number, he settled for e-mailing her while listening to the recordings of her that he had. He listened to the isolated one he'd made—the full version of what was obviously one of Christine's favorite songs. He put it on loop. The Swedish made him ache, because it reminded him of her grief. However, this also made him proud. He liked that she had had that breakthrough with him. In general, he had very mixed feelings: sorrow, loneliness from missing her, pride, joy, and eagerness to see her again.

At first, he didn't know what to say to her, but then it hit him.

_Dear Christine, _

_First of all, I would like to apologize if I made you uncomfortable by hanging around for your examination. I know how personal they can be. I hope that my presence beforehand wasn't the reason for your heart rate or blood pressure. _

_Second of all, I must say that I am astounded by your medical history. Yes, before you say it, I know that there are many people who have gone through more, but there are even more people who go through nothing. You truly are a survivor. Now that I've said this, I'll try not to bring it up again since admiration makes you uncomfortable. _

_As far as our lessons are concerned, you're already improving. You're still quite timid, but that will go away with time and practice. You had a great deal more confidence already this time compared to your first lesson. I could ALMOST hear you instead of the piano. _

_I eagerly anticipate the moment when you sing wholeheartedly with utmost confidence. That will be a sight to behold—breathtaking. _

_I suppose that you're right. I have put you at a disadvantage, but there are parts of my life of which I'm not proud. Unlike you, I don't have pride in my scars. Every scar tells a story, and mine tell tales of horror. I would hate to burden you with them. Perhaps when you're older I might. For right now, I'd rather leave you blissfully ignorant. _

_Have you any more scars? By my count, you have four. I understand if it's too personal a question to answer. Feel free to ignore it. I certainly wouldn't like questions concerning my health. _

_How did the inhaler suit you? Did it help? _

_Hoping you are well, _

_Erik _

* * *

Christine sang unabashedly, her iPod headphones plugged into her computer, the earbuds jammed in her ears. For some reason, she felt like listening to _"Gabriellas S__ång"_. As she always did, she sang it with her whole heart. She particularly loved the line about how she hadn't lost herself—just left it sleeping.

As the instrumental hit, she refreshed her inbox. Her Internet was a little slow. She just finished the song when the page loaded completely, revealing that she had an e-mail from Erik.

**Subject: **Hello

She grinned and eagerly opened it. It made her smile anew and even laugh a little. Quite cheerful, she set to composing a reply.

_Dear Erik, _

_Thank you for your consideration, but my blood pressure and heart rate were caused by my anxiety for examinations. Maybe when I was a baby the people in medical garb scared me? Hahaha. Probably. _

_That's how I like to look at it: there are people who have gone through more, so I'm not that special. I choose to ignore the latter portion of your statement, because it makes me uncomfortable. I'll acknowledge that there are people who go through less, but that doesn't make me better than them. _

_I don't know why, but I keep istening to __**"Gabriellas S**__**ång"**__ on loop. I've started it up again. Lol. ((runs to check that her bedroom window isn't open)) Phew! It isn't! _

_: D _

_I'm glad, because I've been "belting" it (not belting since I can't belt to save my life, but singing it wholeheartedly). Truthfully, when I sang it at your place, I kind-of tuned out your presence and just went with it. I sang it like I'm singing it now: unabashedly and like no one's listening. Hehe. _

_For this song, I don't mind dipping into my lower range. Luckily, it's not too low; I still sound semi-okay on the low notes. Lol. _

_((belts final line)) _

_Whew! It always gets my heart racing to finish a song…usually because I've been holding a long note. _

_This brings me back to answering your questions. The inhaler really helped! I haven't coughed at all since I took that first hit (lol, drug terminology)! _

_As far as your questions concerning my scars go, uhh… ((pats self down to count them)) _

_PDA ligation, the one on my arm, my appendectomy with the little dip/ hole below it left over from my catheter, the one on my thigh… Oh! One time, when I was a toddler, I tripped and hit my head on a rock—a pebble, probably, haha. If I slick my hair back, you can see the white spot right in the middle, at my hairline. ((rubs at it)) There's a little bump, too. If you count my cryosurgery, I've got another scar (albeit invisible). __I guess the scar for my eyes is really my poor vision. Boo hoo hoo! Lol. _

_I'm a silly person. I'm even worse online. Online, you'll probably hear every little thought that flits through my head. 'I'm listening to this song!' 'My computer's lagging!' 'I'm hungry!' 'I have to go to the bathroom! Brb!' lol. I'll try to filter most of it out. _

_What the heck__ is that noise outside? …Okay, it stopped. That was weird. _

_((facepalm)) I just said I wouldn't do that, and I did. Oops! _

_Goodness, my e-mails ramble. I am so sorry! I'm sure you must be SO annoyed with me by now…either that or horribly amused. I hope the latter. _

_: D _

_I know I'm jumping all over the place, but lol at your little jab there – ALMOST. One of these days, I'm gonna drown out the piano. It might just take awhile to get that comfortable, though. _

_: P _

_I use emoticons way too much. I need to cut back. The way I see it, I'm expressive in real life, so I have to find some way to portray this online; hence, I use emoticons like crazy and spout "lol" like a tick. …lol. _

_What's the French equivalent? I thought I heard it was "mdr" – mort de rire. That's a bit of an overstatement, isn't it? "Dead from laughing!" lol. Ugh. I need to stop typing that. __I'm annoying myself. _

_I'm listening to the song again. I can't help it. It's one of my favorites. I believe I mentioned to you that I can listen to songs over and over and not get tired – and Meg doesn't get how I can do that. The only way that she can listen to a song over and over is if she's choreographing. Even then, she tends to get tired of it. _

_Scrolling back up, I realized that I completely spaced out your more serious commentary about yourself. If you'll forgive me, I'd like to address it. _

_I know that it doesn't seem like it because I'm so silly, but I do have it in me to be mature. I know that bad things happen in the world. Allow me to take a stab in the dark using your allusions. _

_If you meant literally that you have scars, which you seemed to do, and that they "tell tales of horror," they are unhappy scars. (Duh! Lol.) Hmm… You traveled with gypsies who were apparently unscrupulous and would use outsiders as income. You had a mother, but you ended up with gypsies? I take it that you ran away from home? And if you ran away from home, then your home life must have sucked, which meant that your mother was not a nice woman. Grr. Hehe. Umm…hmm…_

_Aww! Please don't tell me that you were abused as a child! It makes sense, though. _

_: S _

_I owe you a big hug the next time I see you. XP _

_Anyway, if you ran away from home and joined the gypsies…weren't you an outsider? Using that logic, YOU would have been a source of income for them. I'm assuming that you had musical talent at a young age, so they used that and made you perform. _

_I must confess: I overheard a good chunk of the conversation between you two before my exam. Hopefully, this won't anger you (if it does, I'm sorry! …then again, you did the same, so we're even!), but my point is that you are underweight, so…you don't like eating, so…you're used to not eating? _

_Lol. I feel like a detective. Detective Daaé! Hahaha! _

_Aww! Oh, no! I'm tearing up because my brain made a connection. ((waves hands at face)) Go away, tears! Go away! _

_The gypsies mistreated you, didn't they? __Rat bastards! Normally, I'm not one to swear, but…rat bastards! Lol. _

_I owe you an extra long hug now. _

_Now I'm curious as to how you made your escape. I know you had help, but it still must have been tricky. Hmm. Oh well. You don't have to go into that. What matters is that you're here now, and you live an okay life without people being cruel to you. Yay! Lol. _

_I seriously have to stop typing that. ((almost types it again)) _

_Now that I've depressed myself with my rambling conclusions that may or may not be true, I'm going to listen to happy pop music and get cheerful again. The question is: To what do I want to listen? _

_Ooh! ABBA! Oh, but that might depress me, too, because it reminds me of my dad. He and I shared ABBA as a favorite band, liking both their Swedish and their English. The day that I listen to ABBA without crying is the day that I've truly moved on from my father's death. Eep! I gotta hurry along with a different thought process before I start tearing up (again)! Ugh. I'm such a crybaby! It's annoying and pathetic. _

_Umm…hmm…something random…. _

_I'm not looking forward to school on Monday. Blergh. Now we'll have to work around it. It'll be okay, though. We'll meet at four o'clock so I can have time to wind down after school (and change out of my uniform). _

_Wednesdays, we'll either have no lessons or abbreviated ones, because I have French Club. I'm the president of it, so it's not like I can skip out every Wednesday. If I did that, there would be no club, and that's no good. __Oh! I also have prayer service on Wednesday evenings, but you already know this, because you saw me there this past Wednesday. _

_Ooh! Hoku's a good choice! Girly, fun pop! Yay! _

_"What you give you will receive _

_So, baby__, bring it all to me_

_And I will warm you like the sun_

_I always knew you were the ONE!" _

_Ooh! I actually sounded good (except not very pop-like, haha) on that high note – and I held it! The lessons are already paying off! Yay! Thank you! _

_Random note: I don't like the word "baby". I don't know why. Thankfully, no one's ever called me it. She uses it a lot in her lyrics. Grr. _

_By the way, the song I quoted is "Oxygen". Give it a listen if you don't think it will burn your ears. Lol. _

_Not that it matters, but Meg got me into Hoku. We were watching __**Legally Blonde**__, and we both decided that we liked the opening song ("Perfect Day"). Ever since then, I've been like, 'Ooh! Girly pop! Nice!' _

_I need to shut up already. This e-mail's getting out of hand. I'm rambling (like I said I wouldn't). I'm jealous. Your e-mails are so concise. Mine wander every which way. _

_Anyway, thanks for the e-mail. You've given me something to do for the last…however many minutes I've been writing this. _

_: D _

She signed it as she signed all her e-mails—with a heart followed by her name. It didn't occur to her that this was highly inappropriate. She considered it cute and friendly.

* * *

Erik stared at his computer screen, still trying to process the crazy e-mail that he just read. It truly did "wander every which way". It made it harder to absorb. At the same time, it made him smile. It was pure Christine: sweet, rambling, ocassionally intelligent, immature because she seemed afraid to show her true maturity, and touching. She touched hearts without seeming to realize it.

His smile crumbled, and he started crying. He couldn't get the idea of her hugging him out of his mind. She'd do it—he knew that she would. She'd do it and be kind and wonderful as she said everything she needed to with just her embrace. He clutched at the back of his head, his fingers gripping at the fake hair of his wig. He didn't cry for long because he didn't want to aggravate his sinuses. He'd finally managed to get them under control; he didn't need his sinutis flaring up.

In an effort to feel closer to Christine, he listened to the song that she mentioned, keeping an open mind. It made him chuckle. It, too, was pure Christine: upbeat, sunshine, and pure love. He wouldn't mind hearing her sing it...in particular, to him. In fact, he decided that the song was actually her discreet way of telling him that she loved him. He ignored the fact that they hadn't known each other for long or that maybe she just randomly mentioned it because she was that hyper or silly. No, no. It was a message to him: she loved him, and she'd be perfectly happy with him. She was ready to be his everything, be his oxygen.

Once he finished listening to the song, he sent a quick reply to her. Given her lengthy letter, however, his e-mail ended up being rather long.

_Dear Christine, _

_You've inspired a new composition. It's quite upbeat and pretty. I'll play it for you sometime. _

_How funny: I was listening to that song on loop, too. You made me love it. I'm eager to see the film containing it. _

_You are indeed silly, but I find it entertaining, so don't worry. If you annoyed me, I wouldn't associate with you. I'd give you the cold shoulder. Bear in mind: If you ever try to speak to me while I'm playing an instrument, and I don't reply, it's probably because I don't hear you. I'm sure you know what that's like – intense focus. _

_Detective Daaé indeed! You're quite perceptive. I must admit: I'm a little perturbed that you overheard us, but, in a way, I'm glad. I feel less guilty for having eavesdropped on you. _

_Now that we've gotten all that out of the way, we can never talk about it again – least of all in person. _

_I think that your ability to listen or watch things that you shared with your father comes down to your frame of mind. If you think positively while listening, remembering the good times, you should be able to enjoy the music again. It'd be a shame never to listen to your favorite band again simply because you choose to associate your sorrow with it instead of fond memories. _

_That arrangement of your schedule sounds fine. I'm actually quite pleased that you're in charge of your French Club. Its members must have a great deal of fun. I'm sure that you think of fun activities and manage to include everyone – including those who may not speak French as well as you do. The idea of you having a leadership role makes me smile. There is confidence in you – apparently, in your love of languages. Now we just have to figure out how to transfer that confidence into your singing. It shouldn't be too hard. _

_I braved listening to that song. I will confess: I rather like it. It is, as you say, "girly," but it suits you, which makes it okay. This doesn't mean that I will tolerate too much "girly" music, but I will try to keep an open mind. Please don't overload me. _

_Why do you always feel that you need to "shut up"? Although it takes a while to get through your "rambling," I don't mind it. It's part of who you are. That being said, don't expect me to respond quickly. I need time to sift through it. Dare I say it? "lol"! _

_; ) _

_Erik _

* * *

Christine literally laughed out loud at Erik's response. It made her quite giddy that she inspired a composition from him. She hoped that it was on violin. She decided that it had to be; violin seemed to be Erik's favorite instrument; it was their link (aside from singing).

She couldn't get over the fact that he said "lol". Teasing or not, it cracked her up. She ended their thread simply by saying, 'That sounds neat. I can't wait to hear it. I'm gonna go to bed. Good night!' She signed it as usual, sent it, and then logged out.

"Hmm. Pajamas or nightgown? …Nightgown!"

After taking out her one contact and cleaning her teeth, she set to belatedly brushing her hair in the bathroom adjoined to her bedroom. Her brow furrowed as she stared unseeingly at the counter. They had glossed over it, so it hadn't sunk in, but Erik had been abused—by his mother, by the gypsies. He'd been unmasked at his Juilliard graduation—what should have been the happiest moment of his life. It just didn't seem fair.

She sighed heavily, quite depressed. As she lay in bed, she pondered it more, a heavy frown in palce. "I'm so totally giving him a hug when I see him next!" It made her giggle, because Erik was still tentative about hugs…in spite of that rather creepy one in his apartment. She muttered into the darkness, her pillow muffling her voice, "Note to self: Stay out of Erik's apartment."

* * *

Finished with his composition and dealing with insomnia, Erik pondered how best to fill his time. He used his browser history and ended up back on Christine's video profile. He watched all of her violin performances. Her pinky was a little weak, but that was the only bad thing that he could find. He noticed that she rarely smiled. When she did, she did so with her lips. He wondered why until he watched a different video where she couldn't help but grin with pride. He paused the video and leaned in, peering at it. Her teeth were different. Only her top row showed, but he knew that her bottom row had to be different. The front two teeth had yellow and white flecks on them. In general, her teeth weren't as brilliantly white as they were now.

It made sense: once she fell into money thanks to the patronage of the old couple, she took advantage of it and got her teeth fixed. He didn't blame her.

Her teeth were beautiful now, but he still found her other smile just as pretty—even when he spied a moment in a video where she grinned hard enough that her bottom lip pulled down to reveal the other row of teeth. There was some crowding, but it wasn't bad. The only really noticeable thing was that one tooth—the one right next to her canine in the left quadrant—took a literal backseat to the rest of her teeth, leaving a little groove between the canine and the tooth next to the misaligned one.

He felt quite murderous as he read comments that picked on her teeth, her glasses, and her lazy left eye. There were even some people who picked on her choice of attire, calling it boring when, really, it was just casual and meant to keep focus on her playing: skirts and tops of one color; jeans with t-shirts that bore no writing or images. The majority of the comments focused on her playing (some of these gave misinformation while trying to sound smart), but there were some insecure jerks that picked apart her physical flaws.

Ultimately deciding that it would take too much effort to track down the people behind the screen names, Erik instead found a way to send these people e-mails with viruses that they were sure to open, because he hacked into the accounts of friends.

"Hehehe! Serves you right!"

Back on the profile, he noted that she had a few friends, two of which were labeled intriguingly: "PappaDaaé" and "Daaé". He went to "Daaé" first and found the profile in both Swedish and English.

The profile gave a biography of her father, mainly going into detail on the number of compositions ("over two thousand songs") and the venues at which he played. A great deal of these happened to be in his homeland.

There happened to be a note amongst all this, sharing a quote from the man:

"Inspiration comes in many forms. For me, it is my wife and child. They are the light of my life. Though my wife passed away a few years ago, her memory continues to fill my soul to the brim with music. I play for her, and I play for my amazing daughter. I play with God in my heart, hoping to give back something in return for the wonderful gifts with which He has blessed me."

At the very bottom of it all, he noted a paragraph that seemed disjointed from the rest of it:

_Mr. Daaé passed away__ on January 22, 2006 due to lung cancer. He will be missed, but his music will live on. _

He felt it deep in his gut that Christine tacked this on. Everything else had to have been written by Mr. Daaé himself (albeit in third person to make it seem like someone else wrote it, to make it sound more professional), but this…this sounded like Christine.

He began going through the files. There were so many video recordings of the man playing that he stayed up through the entire night, soaking them in.

He was quite shocked that he recognized Mr. Daaé. He knew that he had seen him once or twice around the complex. He vaguely recalled sharing an elevator with him once. His soul quivered with this realization. Christine had been in the same vicinity for years. This got him wondering in which apartment she lived, but he put the matter aside. For now, he wanted to focus on the violin playing. It didn't particularly matter where Christine had lived, because he hadn't known her then, and, more importantly, he had her now.

In the description box, there was both Swedish and English. These boxes talked about what inspired each song. Erik found himself listening to _"Vals för Christine/ _Waltz for Christine" over and over. He even got his violin and began to emulate it. In the description box, it said this:

_My daughter has always been the greatest joy in my life. She amazes me with everything that she does. She doesn't let the world keep her down, and she always faces the day with a bright attitude__ and vibrant spirit (although, perhaps not as much in the early morning, for she is quite the night owl). _

_I wrote this waltz for her while she was in the NICU. It is my great honor that she has learned it from me and can play it herself. _

_I have another version of this posted __where it is an audio recording of this piece set to images of Christine to mark her triumphs in the world. She is my greatest fan and the best thing in my life by far. _

He was about to leave the page when he noticed a comment left by "LittleLotte". It was in Swedish, but, with the aid of an online Swedish to French dictionary, he pieced together what it said:

_I love you, Daddy. __I'll never get tired of hearing you play. You're the greatest dad that a girl could ever have! I'm so proud to be your daughter! _

Mr. Daaé posted a comment in response:

_I love you, too, my little songbird. I never get tired of playing for you. YOU are the greatest daughter that any father could ever have, and I am the one who is proud. Your kindness and g__entle spirit let me know that I have done right by you, and every time you sing, I thank God for you. You are my greatest treasure. _

Erik exhaled slowly, profoundly touched by their display of love. He now knew where Christine got her tenderness and generosity.

Her comment about her father being silly except when he played stuck with him. The man was very serious with his playing, which was something that he admired. It was a great contrast to see the videos under "PappaDaaé". To his supreme delight, they all featured Christine at various point in her life.

He couldn't figure out if he had seen her around the building when she was younger, because, for all he knew, she looked familiar to him because he knew her face _now_. He came to the conclusion that he had never actually seen her. Those sweet eyes would have stuck with him. He'd remember if he had looked into those pretty blues any earlier in life. Her face would have haunted him sooner than now.

At a young age, Christine seemed fascinated by the video recorder and treated it like a regular camera. He actually had to strain his ears to make out what her soft, little voice asked as her tiny, childish finger pointed up at the camera. "What's that red light?"She and her father spoke in English, and he wondered why. He assumed that it was because her mother must have still been alive at this point. Christine was only four or five.

She wasn't wearing her glasses in this video, but she wore them in almost every other one. He noted that her eyes looked very blue and her lips were as red as roses. She grew out of this, but her lips were still quite rosy and pretty. This got him imagining what it might be like to kiss them. Shaking his head, he refocused his attention. He couldn't afford to dwell on such thoughts.

He got to see her first violin lesson, and it warmed his heart.

She wore no glasses in this one. Her golden hair was in pigtails. She wore a red jumper dress over a long-sleeved white shirt. She had on socks but no shoes. She was so unbelievably tiny, her hands especially, that it boggled his mind. Her heart-shaped face seemed too long for her body, and it was quite angular, her chin pointy, but it allowed him to admire the fact that she had grown into it. It made her all the more striking.

The light that came on in Christine's eyes when her father presented her with her own child-sized violin took his breath away. Her father then pointed out the parts of the violin, using English while her mother (presumably) filmed the scene. Erik adored the grin that appeared on Christine's face when her father shifted her into position to stand tall and hold the instrument properly. Her eyes sparkled, and her grin dazzled him, when she produced a sound from it. It was the perfect moment, rivaling even the image of when he first saw her standing in the choir on Christmas Eve. He had known it when he first saw her, but now there was no doubt: this little angel owned his heart.

There were many videos of the camera being set aside to film the two goofing around. He learned that Mr. Daaé played the piano and the guitar as well as the violin. Somehow, he made Christine forget about the camcorder rolling; he got her to sing. Erik considered himself extremely lucky that he got to listen to the progression of her voice.

At the age of four, she had a solo—a single line, but a beautiful one—at a Christmas concert at a church in Denver. It was "Little Dummer Boy". She had the sweetest light in her eyes as she smiled and sang, _"Then he smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum! Me and my drum!" _The choir finished off the song. She was timid, but the lovely quality of her voice was still there. It was pure.

One video in particular stood out to him. This one was set to private or "friends only," but he hacked into the account after a few minutes.

In this video, thirteen-year-old Christine sat on a blue couch in an apartment not unlike his own, the couch against the white wall. She wore pink, silk pajamas with odd little designs on them. Her little foot peeked out from under the quilt that sat draped across her lap. He noted that she wore long pants that matched the top. Her top was a camisole with a modest, horizontal neckline. In general, her pajamas looked cute but thin. She shivered and shifted the quilt to cover up better. She was extremely pale and looked very tired. There were shadows under her eyes. She wore no glasses in this moment.

Her father spoke in Swedish, but, oddly enough, there were English subtitles. Erik assumed that it was for posterity—or maybe it was to help the pair with their respective foreign languages. No matter the reason, he was grateful.

"I know that I probably shouldn't videotape you in this condition, but I don't think that a picture covers it. I think that you should have your birthday documented. Besides, I have a present for you, which is why I think that a mere picture won't suffice."

Erik smiled. He quite liked Mr. Daaé. He greatly reminded him of his mentor. Erik surmised that Christine's vocabulary was as good as it was not only because she read but because her father had a rather extensive vocabulary. In their case, intelligence seemed genetic.

"I'm cold," Christine complained. Her father's voice promised to turn up the heat. He set the camcorder up on a high shelf or perhaps an entertainment center so that it looked down on the girl on the couch. "Dad," the subtitles said of _'Pappa,' _"where are my glasses?"

"Probably mixed in with your giant bag of stuff from the hospital." He dragged a large, plastic bag into sight, beginning to dig through it. He produced a thin, green pouch and pulled out her glasses through the opening in the side. "Here you go."

The blanket slid down as she took the glasses from him and donned them. Erik noted that her hands were bruised and had puncture marks. The soft underside of her arms proved to be in similar shape.

Christine smiled tiredly, mmurmuring in Swedish, the subtitles flashing, "Did you see when Meg braided my hair and did my make-up—and my nail polish?"

"Yes, I did. You looked very pretty."

"I've never owned make-up before. …I don't think I'll wear it much."

"Oh?"

She crinkled her nose, still fatigued, her eyelids lowered a bit. "No. It's too much of a hassle."

"That's understandable. You're pretty enough without all of it. Now, let me get your present." Christine dozed in the time that he was gone, opening her eyes and straightening her head when he returned. She offered another tired smile at him. That tired smile got wiped away as she tried to unwrap the gift. Her hands wouldn't cooperate, so her father sat and unwrapped it for her, even opening up the white box.

Christine stared into it. Tears began to fill her eyes, but she smiled. "It's too expensive!"

"Nonsense. I've been saving up for it. Besides, it's your birthday. You deserve to be spoiled a little on your birthday."

Erik heard the sound of clasps being undone, instantly recognizing the sound of an instrument case opening. His heart rate picked up, and he leaned in a little closer, craving the moment when the instrument would be revealed.

With shaky hands, the younger Christine reached in and pulled out a violin bow. Her fingertips glided along the sleek, taut horse hair. There was a bit more energy in her face—a wider smile combined with more alert eyes, though her glasses did cast shadows. When she aimed to grab the rosin, her father took the bow back and rubbed rosin on it for her. Christine lifted the violin out, gritting her teeth as if it took all of her strength to do so.

"Not too much," he warned. "You're still recovering."

She set it on her shoulder and found it too heavy in this moment. Erik attributed her trouble to the puncture wounds on her arms and hands. Her body probably also lacked strength from fighting off its ordeal.

She shook as she lowered the instrument; her father hastened to grab it and set it back in its case with the bow. She blinked as tears filled her eyes, complaining, "I can't even play."

"You'll be able to. You just need a good night's sleep. You need to rest up."

She admitted, "I feel like I haven't slept in days. I can't sleep on my back, but I had to, because I couldn't sleep on my left—the bag would weigh me down and tug on me—and I couldn't sleep on my right because of my IV. It hurt to roll over, too."

Shifting the box, he leaned in to tenderly hug her. He pulled back and stroked her hair as he replied, "I know. Well, you're home now, so you'll be much more comfortable." He kissed her temple. "Are you hungry? You're allowed to eat solid food now."

"Yeah. I didn't eat the dinner that they left me."

"I wouldn't have either. That hamburger looked gross!"

She laughed and winced, her hand going to the spot on her abdomen—it was on her right, he noted, near her hip. It made a very faint noise, alerting Erik to the fact that she probably had bandages underneath her top.

Mr. Daaé got up from his seat again but only to bend down. He retrieved the violin that looked to be the perfect size for his daughter and hoisted it. Christine grinned as he played "Happy Birthday" on it. Erik smiled as well, in love with her grin as well as the beauty of the instrument. Her father had picked a good one.

"Any requests?" the violinist prodded.

"Hmm… Play Mom's waltz." He nodded and acquiesced. Her smile began to fade as her eyelids closed. She fell asleep as he played, but he didn't notice until the end of the six-minute song.

"Oh! The video!" With a soft kiss to her forehead, the violin and bow in his hands, he moved over to turn off the camcorder. The last thing visible was his smile.

Erik decided that he'd be able to catch some sleep now that he had the image of Christine sleeping in his mind. So, he shut down his computer, humming Christine's waltz as he prepared for bed. His fatigue caught up with him, and he easily drifted off.

* * *

**A/N: ****Whew! That chapter was a doozy! **

**I have to laugh at the fact that I used to hate the songs that my grandma tried to teach me in the one week that we had together (**_**"Villanelle" **_**and **_**"O del mio amato ben"**_**). Needless to say, they grew on me. I still don't like "The Sun Whose Rays". **

**Actually, scratch that! Apparently, it grew on me, too. Lol. I just listened to Valerie Masterson sing it. ****(Look it up!) **

**: O **

**I'm so jealous. I want to sing like that! I need voice lessons! XD **

**Please review! **

**Kagome-chan **


	11. A Little Too Close to Home

**A/N: ((sighs)) Still no answer from **_**UbiquitousPhantom**_**. I hope she's all right. Eesh! **

**Please excuse any errors! **

**I apologize for the delay. I ended up in the hospital, and I've been recovering for the last month or so. Updates will be slow due to the fact that I'm not supposed to sit for too long. Plus, I'm moving in the near future. Oh, and my computer got a virus that likes to shut down Word, so I have to use alternative computers. All in all, my personal life is just…bleh. I hope that you'll bear with me. The story really is finished offline (if that's any consolation)! **

**Not that it matters, but I gotta say: I love Madame Giry. In the book, she's hilarious! Hehe. **

**Also, I've bumped this story's rating up to M just to be safe. The language isn't that bad (ish), but sexual situations do arise later on. In fact, innocence versus maturity turned out to be a theme. For the most part, though, the story is safe for teen eyes. **

**I just realized that my dividers didn't show up. I do not have time to go through all that and add these little lines right now! Maybe one by one...eventually.... Bleh. **

**Enjoy! **

* * *

Chapter Eleven: A Little Too Close to Home

After prayer service on Wednesday, Erik and Christine convened at the organ console as usual to chat. She confessed, "I know that I'm late in saying this, but getting a new doctor came just in time. My original doctor was going to move soon—to a different practice. Mama Valerius and I were just about to start looking at other people."

"Well, I'm glad that things worked out, then." He knew the answer, but he couldn't resist asking, "Do you like your new doctor?"

She laughed. "Very much. He's very kind." She couldn't say why she did it, but she asked, "Will you be coming to Meg's show? It's Friday—or Saturday. I'm going Friday."

Erik gritted his teeth. "I don't think so. For one thing, I'm not invited. For another, I don't do well with crowds—especially crowds full of young, stupid people. As much as I'd love to share the evening with you, I don't think that I can."

"Oh." She wilted. She thought it had been a great idea. "That's too bad. Have you ever been to a dance show?"

"Not at a high school, no. I've watched dancers at Juilliard perform, though."

"Heh. Somehow, I keep forgetting that you went to Juilliard, so when I get reminded, it blows me away."

Things got quiet, and Christine smiled, nodding just because it was silent between them. "So…uhh…" She snorted with amusement. "I still owe you a proper hug, don't I?"

His heartbeat picked up speed. "You don't have to."

"Oh! Don't worry! I'm not going to do it now. That'd be a little awkward. I haven't done it yet, because I don't think Mama Valerius would be too happy." She half-joked, "Maybe I'll save it for your birthday. When's your birthday?"

"November thirteenth."

When she grinned, it made him nervous. It forced him to confess, "I hate my birthdays."

"That's okay. Somehow, I never get very excited for my birthday. I mean, I get excited to see my friends, but, other than that, I don't care. I don't care if I get absolutely no presents as long as people show up; however, since it's the holidays, there are some of my friends who are usually out of town, so that's a bummer. I hate how Mama Valerius tries to make such…extravagent, I suppose is the word that I want is—extravagent parties. I've always been content with just hanging out and having funs with my friends. I don't care about decorations—though they are pretty. I don't care about eating at an expensive restaurant—that just makes me feel uncomfortable. I'd take a homemade cake baked with love over something store-bought any day. I have to admit, though: I like dressing up for my birthday. I like feeling pretty."

He smiled. "That's natural."

"I like thoughtful gifts instead of things like gift cards or money straight-up. I can't draw to save my life, but I always make cards by hand for my friends' birthdays—particularly because it makes them laugh. Fair warning: you are going to get a crappy, handmade card for your birthday and a lame present that will be from the heart. I won't be able to live with myself if I _buy _you something, because anybody can _buy _someone something; it takes much more creativity to _make _something, you know?"

Nodding, he agreed, "Mm-hm."

"Then again, it can also take thought to pick out something, so something store-bought has the potential to be thoughtful. I guess it just comes down to the gift-giver's intention."

He nodded again then hesitantly said, "I'm sure that it wouldn't be lame."

"Uhh…I wouldn't be so sure. One time, for Meg's birthday—which is June fifth, by the way, something I've always liked because it's near my dad's—uhh…what was I saying?"

A small laugh popped from his mouth. "Meg's birthday."

"Oh, yes! One time, for Meg's birthday, her Sweet Sixteen, actually, I made a scrapbook of us from childhood. There were some dance pictures in there from my brief stint as a dancer, mostly _Nutcracker_, some in a studio from class, but a lot of the pictures were just random ones from us growing up together. I tried to make the cover look pretty, but I don't think it was. I used a lot of pink ribbon, because Meg's favorite color is pink. And even though she thinks that my handwriting is ugly, I painted a title on the cover."

He mused, "I haven't seen your handwriting, but I'm sure that it's not ugly."

"Not to be conceited or anything, but I think that her handwriting's uglier than mine. Chad's got nicer handwriting, and that pisses her off. Haha!"

"And Chad is her boyfriend?"

"Ah! Yeah!" She beamed. "I love that guy! He's always good for a laugh, and he's always _happy_, which is refreshing. He and I get along really well. We're kind-of similar."

Chuckling, he replied, "It seems like it."

"And he's _super _romantic! Like…wow. I don't know if they're just lines, but he says the most beautiful things to Meg. Like, before they started going out, Meg asked him, 'What's one thing that you don't like about me?'

"Because she was dating someone else, he said, 'The fact that you're not mine!'"

As Christine fanned her curled-in lips, Erik chuckled again. He quite liked that statement. She continued to give examples of Chad's romantic words and gestures.

"And Meg and her friends were hanging out one evening at the beach or whatever, and they were asking each other what things reminded them of one another. 'Name one thing that reminds you of me.' Chad said to Meg, 'Sunset. You remind me of a sunset: so beautiful that I can't wait to see it again.'" An "Aww!" escaped her, her eyebrows up high as she simpered. "He's so damn sweet! Oh! Get this! They were dating before he officially asked her out. She spent half the summer going crazy over it, wondering when he'd make it official. One day, he takes her up into the mountains, and she sees words written on the side of the road as they go up. 'Will,' 'You,' 'Be,' 'My'…

"She always tells it as 'I started to say, "Ha! It sounds like someone's gettting asked out!" but I shut up because I relaized that it was me. So, the full thing said—obviously, 'Will You Be My Girlfriend?'" Christine made a small noise of frustration yet grinned. "That's so romantic that I can't stand it! Oh! And then they had a picnic up there! Granted, it was KFC—but that made it sweet, because Meg loves KFC!" She sighed, smiling dreamily. "They're so cute together!

"And he's always super considerate of her. He takes her out to nice places; he makes sure that she eats and drinks enough to fuel her energy for dance; he tells her to be careful about injuring herself; he tells her to believe in herself more. Ugh! He's the perfect boyfriend, so I don't blame Meg for trying to find faults in him or for being afraid that their relationship will end. I tell her not to worry—to just enjoy everything as it happens—but I can see her side. They started going out at the end of July, though, so, by now, she's calmed down a bit. She's still worried, though."

Erik smiled and tried to keep his nerves at bay when he asked, "I take it that you like big, romantic gestures?"

"Hmm…not necessarily _big_ gestures, but romantic gestures, yes. It can be a tiny thing, but if it's thoughtful I'll love it. If it's a big thing, I'd probably just laugh—depending on the context. …How about you?"

He blinked, frowning at her. "Me? I don't know. I've never had a relationship before."

"Aww!" A little pout formed, rapidly turning into a smile. Her fingers went to her lips before her hand touched his shoulder. The touch soaked into him, and his heart raced at the fact that he now indirectly felt her lips on his shoulder. "That's okay! You'll find someone to love you for your music!" She punctuated this by squeezing his shoulder.

His head bowed as he clenched his jaw. "Your optimism astounds me." He felt nauseated. His shoulder burned. He wanted nothing more than to grab her, pull her to him, and hold her…hold her and never let go. It was maddening to think how quickly he had fallen for her. His mind told his heart that it should pull back and be cautious, but his heart just laughed. It was too late for that. Christine illuminated his darkness like fireworks, and the afterimages would always burn in his brain.

"Hey! I'm just sayin': music moves people. What girl wouldn't want to be serenaded?" She shuddered at the pleasant tingles she got, grinning at the idea. "Of course, I'm a sucker for love songs. It doesn't even have to have words; it can be an instrumental; as long as I feel the love in it, I'm head over heels." She blushed when Erik stared at her. "What?" A self-conscious grin crept onto her face.

"Nothing. You're just…" He sighed. "…very sweet."

She shrugged. "I guess. …Random question! You don't have to answer if you find it too personal."

"All right."

Tittering a little, she inquired out of pure curiosity, "What do you think you'd want in a girl?" She liked picturing Erik with someone. She wasn't at the point where she pictured the two of them together, but she liked the idea of Erik finding love.

"I don't know. I haven't given it much thought."

She narrowed her eyes in exasperation, demanding, "Well, take some time to think, then!"

'_Don't say "You"! Don't say "You"!' _

Swallowing down the word, he mused, "Someone…" _like you. No! Don't say that! _"Someone who will love me for my music and not care about my face." _You. You. I only want you. _

Christine nodded. "Simple but sweet. I like it. I'm not very picky, either. I just want someone who will love me and really support me throughout my life—not financially, because I plan on supporting myself in that aspect, but emotionally; you know, moral support. It'd be _interesting _if he liked foreign languages and the same type of music as me, but it's not a requirement. Of course, if he happens to hate any of the languages that I speak, then he's obviously not the one for me.

"I could probably be content being single for the rest of my life, but it would be nice to have someone to come to home to, you know?"

"Yes." Oh, how he knew—how he longed for it!

She amended, "I do actually have a requirement—a stipulation, if you will: he has to truly enjoy listening to me sing and not just _tolerate _it. I don't say this for me; I say it for _his _sake, because God knows that I'm addicted to singing."

Erik muttered, "Christine, that's so obvious that it doesn't count as a requirement. If someone doesn't like your voice, they are a fool, and they are unworthy of your attention. If you're smart, you won't associate with them. You should surround yourself with people who admire your talent, not people who try to silence you—usually out of jealousy."

"Yeah, I know. I was just…letting you know."

"Hmm. I _hope _that you pick wisely enough to at least get that aspect in a man. If you don't, I'll be quite disappointed." His heart ached while the back of his mind hissed that he'd be damned if he let someone else have her.

Her curiosity got the better of her, and she wondered, "Have you ever liked a girl at least?"

"Yes." He cursed the fact that she somehow always drew the truth out of him. Now, she was going to ask more questions, and he'd have to dodge them.

She beamed, but her heart cried out in dismay and jealousy, which confounded her. She had no reason to be jealous! "What was she like?"

"Talented musically, beautiful voice, lovely smile, softspoken…"

"Aww!" She could tell from his tone that he really liked this girl, which she found terribly sweet. His voice was much gentler than usual. "Did you ever talk to her?"

He tried desperately not to grimace as he responded, "Yes."

"Where'd you first meet her? Juilliard?"

He smiled. As long as she didn't ask for a name, he could reply honestly. "At her church."

"Oh! Neat! Let me guess: she was singing with the choir."

Chuckling, he nodded, agreeing, "She was indeed."

Christine touched her heart, gushing, "Aww! That's so cute! So, it was like 'love at first sight' kind of thing?"

His heart pounded harder. "Yes. …I desperately wanted to hear her sing, because I sensed that she had a beautiful voice, but I couldn't hear it; she blended with the choir."

"Aww. That's too bad. She didn't have a solo or anything?"

He laughed and shook his head. "No. She was too shy, I think."

"How'd you two start talking? Did you talk to her, or was it the other way around?"

He cast his mind back. It seemed like a lifetime ago. "She spoke to me."

Christine chuckled as she said, "It reminds me of when we met. We didn't even say hello to each other. We just started a flow of conversation. That was probably my fault. I tend to do that with people. …What did I say? I said that I couldn't take 'Deck the Halls' seriously, and then you said…uhh…" She blinked rapidly as she tried to recall. "What did you say? I remember feeling a little affronted by it."

He offered, "I said, 'It's a pity that you couldn't sing well because of it,' because you said that the carol makes you laugh."

"Oh, yeah!" She giggled. "Man! Now that I know you, that's hilarious and so fitting!" She giggled some more. However, she got a little depressed when she asked, "It's always been about my voice, hasn't it?"

He uneasily answered, "I guess, though I do like you as a person."

Christine blushed as she grinned, immediately feeling better. Embarrassed as she now was, she decided to change the subject. "So, what happened between you two?—between you and that girl?"

A bitter laugh popped from him. "Nothing."

"Nothing? Why?"

He sighed. "It wasn't meant to be. I never expressed my feelings for her. I'm…I was scared to get too close."

He really hated himself for opening up to her, but she was kind and a good listener, and something about her eyes bewitched him into thinking that it was okay to be honest with her. Nonetheless, he scolded himself, insisting that he needed to learn to put distnace between them. It confounded him that he spoke to no one then, all of a sudden, conversed easily with Christine. He didn't like conversation; he found it boring and downright irritating. Suddenly, the reason why he opened up to her so easily occurred to him: If he opened up to her, she'd open up to him; he kept the communication going so that he could learn more about _her_. He'd say anything just to see her smile at him or hear her voice tickle his ears, which made him think that he needed to be more careful about what he shared.

"Oh." She pouted. "That would have been such a cute story! You meet; she hears you playing on the piano or the organ—whatever the church has—and gets entranced; you start talking; you become friends. Friendship turns to love; you enter a relationship with her…happily ever after. Hee hee! Was she a voice major?"

"She loves opera." He was playing with fire. Luckily, Christine heard what she wanted to hear.

Christine gasped, complaining, "Why didn't you keep in touch with her? She sounds perfect for you! You should get in touch with her! What if she married someone else?"

"That's exactly why it would be stupid to call her." _Never mind that this older woman that you're dreaming up doesn't exist. _

She retorted, "Okay. What if she's _not _married? Huh? Then you'd have a shot!"

He shook his head. "I'm happy as I am."

Heaving a sigh, she mumbled, "Okay. If you say so. I think a relationship would do you good, though."

His tone became dry as he replied, "I'll keep that in mind."

Right at this moment, Mama Valerius signaled to Christine, who nodded. "Looks like I've got to go. I'll see you…tomorrow. Heh! I can say that! I was going to say 'See you Sunday!' but I can say, 'See you tomorrow!' It's nice."

"Yes, it is."

He still wans't used to hugs. He continued to brace himself each time that she hugged him. This night was no different. "Mmm! Good night, Erik! Sweet dreams!"

"You, too, Christine."

He sighed as he watched her leave. It was depressing to know that she would probably never see him as anything more than a friend or vocal instructor. As much as he hoped for (and deliriously entertained) the idea of Christine loving him, he knew that she wouldn't. How could she? She was so young and naïve; she really knew nothing about him. She was as warm as the sun while he was cold like the moon. If they were together, he'd dim her light and chill her natural warmth.

He told himself that he should just be happy with her friendship, but he knew that he couldn't. Whether now or later in life, he'd always desire her love; he'd always need it.

As he made his way to his car, he scoffed and muttered to himself in his native tongue how ridiculous it was that he even loved her. She was a silly girl, so it was silly to love her.

Back home, he poured his depression into his music, but it became lighter and sweeter as he thought of how kind and optimistic Christine was.

Suddenly, Little Giry banged on his wall, shouting, "God damn it! I'm trying to do homework! Shut the hell up!"

He called back, "Do your homework in your room instead of the living room!"

"No! Fuck you! Go play the violin in the living room!"

"No! I'm composing!"

Having just returned to the floor, Meg got up again from her pile of papers, her binder, and her textbooks. She climbed on the couch and yelled, "So, take some paper into the living room with you and _compose _there! GOD! You're such an ASSHOLE! Ugh! I hate you so much!" He chuckled, and it apparently carried. "Hey! Don't laugh at me! I'm not kidding! You know, Christine doesn't like inconsiderate people!" His amusement died instantly. "She'd probably think that you were rude for playing while I'm trying to do homework!"

He retorted, "She'd probably think that you were rude for how you yelled at me instead of _asking _me politely to stop playing. Did you ever think that I might be more amenable if you _requested _instead of commanded?"

Meg blinked, her brow furrowing. That thought hadn't actually occurred to her. "No, actually, I hadn't. I thought that you'd still be an ass. Would you _please _go to a different room so that I can do my homework in here? I go stir-crazy in my room." In general, she couldn't concentrate in the apartment. It's why she liked doing her homework at Chad's parents' house—but he wasn't off work yet.

Erik rather liked annoying his neighbor, but the thought of Christine being proud of him for being considerate seduced him. "I will. Thank you for asking this time. Good luck on your studies." After putting away his violin for the short journey to the living room, he gathered up some spare, blank staff paper and migrated.

Meg had to admit that the music hadn't been bothering her that much. She just had a bad day, because the girls on her dance team refused to listen to her—and their show was coming up in _two days_—practically _one _day by this point. They only had one last tech rehearsal and a dress rehearsal (or two, given how many runthroughs their coach wanted) before the show! Still, her pride wouldn't let her apologize, and it was obvious that he'd moved into a different room, anyway.

In a way, she missed the music. It had been really pretty. In fact, she had absentmindedly been choreographing to it in her head instead of focusing on her homework. Now that it was gone, the sound barely reaching her, she felt empty without it. It was easier to study, but she felt depressed. It didn't occur to her that the song had been a happy, loving one for a change. He normally played angry music that gave her chills. For once, she missed the music instead of feeling glad to be rid of it.

* * *

The night of Meg's dance show arrived. Christine rather regretted choosing Friday, because Friday night was always the rowdier night. She sat with Meg's mother, Chad, and his parents. Mama Valerius couldn't tolerate the noise and general rudeness of the audience, so she never came. She preferred to watch the DVDs. Their driver, on the other hand, happened to be in attendance, because he liked dance. In fact, his daughter was on Meg's dance team.

Since they adored her, Chad's parents spoiled Meg, who then felt guilty that she couldn't get nice things for them. While Christine, Madame Giry, and Chad's parents only went to one night, Chad went to both. He brought bouquets both times.

Meg had mentioned prior to the event, "I asked him since he planned to buy the tickets pre-sale, 'Which night do you want?' You know what he said?

"'Why are you asking? You know I'm going to both!'"

It was at this point that both girls gushed over how amazingly considerate the guy was.

Thus far, after a few months of dating, Meg had only managed to unearth the flaws that he had a small tattoo on his back (of which his conservative parents knew nothing and of which they would disapprove), he smoked, and he was obsessed with the maintenance of his car. The fact that he liked to be a smartass could be vaguely annoying, but it was more endearing than anything. Christine found herself amused—perhaps because she was not the target of it. She and Chad got along quite well, because they both loved to tease Meg and joke around about it. They were both happy, smiley people who were usually polite and attentive when listening. Of course, Chad's attentiveness went out the window when Meg entered the equation, because his focus would always shift back to her, but that was okay. Christine expected it by now, so, when it happened, she just cut out and let them converse. Her stories weren't really important—only vaguely amusing.

Chad's parents were lovely, kind people who happened to be loaded. This night was the first time that Christine met them.

She shook the hand of Chad's father, who was of medium-height, stout, and had a black mustache. He rather intimidated her even though he acted kind.

In a pleasant surprise, Chad's mother was her height, her petite stature in general, with hair to match her name: Sandy.

Christine didn't have anything against tall people, but she greatly enjoyed meeting (and hugging) people like her. Regardless of their personality, tall people tended to intimidate her while making her feel like she stood in a hole. It mystified her that she felt so comfortable around Erik, who had to be over six feet tall.

'_Well, no, when I think on it, he intimidates me. Wait. It's not his height that intimidates me, though! It's his musical genius! …It's both. When he's sitting, making music, I get intimidated; when he's walking with me, I get anxious thanks to how he towers. I'm barely even five foot one!' _

She pushed the matter aside so that she wouldn't space out and miss any comments directed at her, putting on a smile just in case anyone had said something already.

To her delight, instead of a handshake, Sandy claimed a hug, which Christine was more than happy to give. It made her realize where Chad got his friendly, easygoing attitude. The woman was a kindred spirit, and Christine enjoyed talking with her. She was actually bummed to go inside and sit down, where she sat next to Chad, who sat next to Sandy, with Chad's father on the end. Madame Giry sat on Christine's left, so it wasn't entirely awkward; she wouldn't feel like she bothered Chad or his parents; she at least had someone truly familiar with which to speak.

Dancer that she was, Madame Giry almost always had her brown hair up in a bun. Tonight, though, she merely had it in a braid. (Meg ended up with black hair thanks to her late father.) Clad in a black dress that revealed no cleavage yet showed off her forearms and calves, her silver cross on display, she was simple yet proud with an air that said that she thought that everyone knew her—or, in this night's case, her daughter. Meg was in at least twelve dances.

Meg was, in fact, very well-known amongst the school for her dance career at it. People she didn't even know would come up to her and greet her by name, which was annoying for the fact that she didn't know them. Most remembered the girl as a blonde since Meg had a fondness for bleaching her hair and had been blonde for her freshman and sophomore years. Christine recalled that her friend deemed it prettier and said that she liked how easily she stood out on stage with the lighter hair color. She found it amusing that Meg couldn't remember why she had dyed it back to her natural color; yet she couldn't remember either. All of Meg's friends told the petite dancer that she looked better as a blonde—with the exception of Christine, who kept mum on the matter. She preferred Meg with her natural hair color.

Madame Giry came across as strict, but there was a surprising gentleness underneath it all. In her lap, she had a bouquet of pink roses for her daughter. She was very tender to Christine. For instance, in the few minutes before the lights went down, she touched the girl's hand and smiled at her, squeezing her hand as she said with her accented English, "It's good to see you, sweetheart."

"It's good to see you, too, Madame." However, her heart ached. She had trouble being around the woman, because she associated her with her father. The two had been good friends—both widowed, both single parents, both in love with dance and music. In a way, they parented together, each fulfilling the role that whichever girl lacked. When she saw Madame Giry, Christine expected to see her father appear in the vicinity. It broke her heart. In a way, she had gone out of her way to avoid seeing her former surrogate mother. It just hurt too much to see her. She even went to Christine's church, yet she avoided the girl out of respect of their unspoken agreement.

Madame Giry had been there for the shift into puberty, the one to help her out at the embarrassing moment in her life when she had her first period—which coincided with the evening that she had a band concert. She had always sat front and center with her flute, so she was already stressing about the concert when she discovered the disconcerting stain in her underwear. Thankfully, she hung out _Chez Giry_, anyway, so the only embarrassment came with telling the elder female about her dilemma.

Sometimes, they went shopping together. Sometimes, Madame Giry had helped her do her hair for school or for outings. Back then, she was too young to wear make-up; she hadn't even got her first make-up kit until she was thirteen. Madame Giry had been the one to bathe her upon her release from the hospital. The woman used to be her confidant for those little female things that she couldn't tell her father. When she and her father moved away from the apartment complex, Christine had hugged Meg and her mother like she was never going to see them again—miraculously not crying for once.

Although Madame Giry and Mama Valerius were friends, they never really hung out. Christine never saw Madame Giry unless in passing (perhaps when leaving the Giry apartment after hanging out with Meg) or from afar (such as at church). She avoided looking her way. The only real times that they saw each other coincided with Meg's dance performances—her school ones, winter and spring, ballet recitals, and _The Nutcracker _in December. Typically, they sat near each other but didn't talk. At the two or three ballet performances throughout the year, which Mama Valerius actually attended, the two adult women talked instead. Though she always sat next to Madame Giry at Meg's dance shows, Christine wasn't entirely happy to do so; she felt oddly anxious; she didn't like looking over or talking to the woman. Of course, faced with annoying Chad and his parents, she preferred conversing with Madame Giry if she talked at all.

She wondered if things would be different if Meg's shows _weren't _in January. True, there were some near the end of the semester, but the main ones were in January. In her opinion, things were just as tense in the late spring.

Christine hated January, because it always reminded her of her father and his death. And now, she had Madame Giry's presence to remind her. All in all, it was bittersweet to see the woman again.

The normally quiet, well-mannered teen told herself to breathe instead of yell as the crowd just would _not _shut up. The rude and obnoxious behavior was one of the few things that could get her angry.

The show opened with the officers (and a couple of members) reading off their coach's credentials and rules of the auditorium. Christine knew that Meg was secretly pissed that she was lieutenant instead of captain. She had been on the team for three years already, and she worked harder than anyone; she had more dedication than the entire team combined. Plus, given her years of ballet training, she was the most skilled. Christine began giggling when Meg suffered from a fit of giggling due to pre-show jitters. It was so bad that, after she straightened from doubling over for a moment, she giggled anew and had to pass off her index card and microphone to be read by the next person.

It was a very long show—two hours that seemed to drag on forever. Honestly, Christine didn't enjoy sitting through anything that lacked Meg, because the girl _made _the dances (in her biased opinion). To give the dancers time to change, there were usually vocalists stuck in between. One or two were good; most were pitchy. Christine hated herself for judging them, because she knew that she would sound just as bad due to her nerves. Thinking this made her giggle, because Erik would have a field day with her if he knew that she thought this way. This reminded her of his talk to find venues for her.

'_Oh! Please don't let him realize that singers can audition for this and __**Best of Broadway**__!' _

In general, Christine liked this show a lot more than previous ones. Meg was in almost every dance, and she shone. Christine particularly liked the lyrical and jazz pieces. It opened with Meg's favorite dance: "Golddust" by Tori Amos. Christine loved the song and the dancing itself but wasn't sure if she liked the costumes for it or not. The dancers wore flowing, champagne-colored lyrical tops and brown dance shorts; brown ribbon wrapped around one thigh just once and ended at the knee while strips of material to match the top wrapped in a criss-cross pattern just above the elbow on the same side. What she loved best—what she waited for—was Meg's solo. She had heard so much about it from Meg that she craved the sight of it. It was beautiful—much too short in Christine's opinion.

Meg brought class to the show. She was the most talented dancer up there—the most expressive, the most exacting, the most experienced. Even with her dark hair this year instead of bleached blonde, she stood out.

Christine eagerly anticipated the lyrical dance choreographed by Meg's friend Josh (who was not on the team but who was in Advanced Jazz). At intermission, she glanced at her program. Meg would be on pointe, dancing to "Alabaster Box" by CeCe Winans. Meg didn't disappoint. She was clad in a long, flowing dress that seemed to be purple yet green while sheer, her sleeves spaghetti straps to leave her arms free, the neckline swooping and flattering to her short form. She glided across the stage with _bourrées _amongst "angels" (dancers in white) and her friend Josh, who was apparently representative of Jesus. Her hair was in a bun, her make-up lovely. She "hinged" (as Meg would call it) at one point, falling on her knees as Josh helped her to her feet, took her hand, and guided her back into dance, just in time for Meg to have a beautiful, unaided _penché _at the front corner of stage right, a spotlight on her as she leaned with great balance, her supporting foot flat, her line beautiful. The crowd cheered as she held it then flew to "Jesus". At the end of the dance, she and her savior went off hand in hand, walking through the center to the backdrop before the lights went down.

Everyone applauded. Christine smiled when she looked at Madame Giry and found that the woman was crying and trying not to sob too loudly. She had to look away so that she wouldn't join her.

Quite relieved when the show ended a few dances later, Christine followed everybody to the foyer, where they searched for Meg. Since it was stuffy, they migrated with everyone else to the cement platform outside the glass doors of the entrance to the school auditorium.

After much waiting, they spied the dark-haired dancer. Wearing her dance jacket and pants to cover her body tights, dance shorts, and thin shirt, she took awhile to get to them, because she stopped to hug and talk to her fellow team members. When she approached, Christine marveled at how much stage make-up there was. It never failed to stun her. Meg's hair being slicked back into a ponytail wasn't anything new, but it still amazed her. She rushed forward to be the first to hug and compliment Meg, who then shared embraces with everyone else before asking, "What were your favorite dances?"

Christine offered, "I liked 'Golddust'—but you know that I love Tori Amos. I also liked that lyrical with the aquamarine dresses—the one with the sequins on the bust!"

"'Slow Me Down'?"

"Umm…I think that's what it was. I don't know that song, but I like it now."

Meg sang, _"Doo-doo doo-doo," _and Christine cried, "Yeah! That one!" The dancer nodded. Christine added, "I loved 'Alabaster Box'. It was beautiful."

Her mother said, "I cried."

Christine laughed and replied, "She did."

Madame Giry teared up as she stated, _"Je suis si fière de toi." _'I'm so proud of you.'

Meg knew that her mother rarely cried, so the news almost made _her _cry. _"Merci, Maman." _She hugged her, squeezing her tightly, dwelling on the pride and joy in her heart so that she didn't cry. She pulled away and asked, "What other dances did you like?"

Always ready to gush about her favorite dancer, Christine answered, "I liked the one at the end—'Untouched'. That blue and black costume looked really flattering on you; I liked the garter on your leg. I also liked the trio in the white dresses."

"'Silence'? The one that Andy choreographed?"

"Yeah! I liked that other one that he choreographed, but it made me cry." She had kept her sobs locked up, but she had shed tears over it.

Meg thought on which one this might be and responded, "Oh, 'Passage'? Yeah, it's a sad song." She rapidly turned to Chad, beaming as she asked what his favorites were.

Christine blinked, choking down her hurt. It wasn't just a 'sad song'. It was a song about someone dying in a car accident. She had cried because it made her think of her mother.

She didn't know why this wounded her so much, and she was horrified to find that it was extremely hard to shove down the hurt and smile for Meg. She was not about to ruin the mood by pointing out why it made her cry; she wasn't about to make Meg feel guilty for not warning her about it; she wasn't about to depress everyone.

After some discussion, Meg went off with Chad and his parents, her mother politely refusing to join them. She slipped her daughter a twenty as she kissed her cheek, not wanting her to impose on Chad's family. Chad's parents would refuse it, telling Meg to keep it for snacks and water for dance. The little group left, and Madame Giry touched Christine's shoulder. The girl flinched and recoiled with a tiny gasp.

"Have you had dinner?" that familiar, French voice asked.

Christine smiled and stated, "Yes."

"Would you mind accompanying me, then, to get something to drink? I'd like a chance to talk with you."

Sighing on the inside, the teen continued to smile as she nodded and said, "Okay." She looked to her driver.

He smiled and said, "I'll let her know. Have fun." He then went to locate his daughter amongst her friends, hoping to take her out to celebrate. It turned out that all the dancers were going out together (with the exception of Meg, who was tired of hanging around the girls and ready to relax with her boyfriend). The brunet hugged his daughter, telling her that she was beautiful before he pinned her down on if she had a ride home. Meanwhile, Madame Giry guided a tense Christine to her familiar, silver sedan.

"Where do you want to go?" her friend prodded.

"I don't know."

The woman admitted, "I don't really feel like going out for drinks. Let's just head back home. We can have something there."

It was like a sock to the gut. "You mean…to your apartment?"

"Yes. …Sorry."

"It's okay." She belatedly added, "It'll be nice to sit and catch up in private."

Madame Giry smiled and patted her knee, garnering another flinch from her passenger. As the silence stretched on, she turned on a CD full of famous classical piano pieces. It earned a small smile from Christine, but it didn't last: her smile fell, and she watched the night pass by through her window, not saying a word. Madame Giry was greatly familiar with this. There were times where Christine liked to be quiet, and riding in a car was one of them. There were exceptions, but, mostly, in the car and at mealtimes, Christine liked to sit quietly. The music only served to fill the silence; it didn't alleviate any of the awkwardness that lingered between them.

Just as she knew that it would, the drive to the apartment complex played tricks on Christine's mind. In the parking lot, she hunted for her father's gray Honda. When they got into the elevator, she accidentally pushed the button for the second floor instead of the third. Thus, the elevator stopped and opened on the second floor, tempting her, beckoning her to get out and walk to her old door. She realized that she held her breath only once the doors closed, the machine ascending again. She and her companion said nothing to each other until they reached the door. As Madame Giry unlocked it, she said, "I apologize for the mess. Meg and I were in a bit of a rush since she had to be at the school at five-thirty."

"That's fine. You forget: I grew up with Meg."

The woman turned and smiled. "I didn't forget." Holding the door open for her guest, she frowned when she noticed the way that the girl regarded her next door neighbor's door. "Is something wrong?"

Battling the urge to go to Erik's door, Christine shook her head, smiled, and entered the Giry apartment, her host shutting the door behind her.

"Take off your shoes. Make yourself comfortable. Do you want anything? Water? Juice? Hot chocolate?"

Since it was winter, Christine grinned and replied, "Hot chocolate, please. Thank you."

"No problem."

While Madame Giry set to heating the tea kettle for Christine's mug of instant hot chocolate, Christine sat at the little table and sighed quietly. She wasn't comfortable in the apartment, which was odd, because she knew it so well; she _used _to be comfortable in it. She was comfortable in it around Meg, which had to mean that it was Madame Giry's presence that so disturbed her.

She turned a little in her chair and looked behind her at the wall, wishing that she could see Erik. She felt oddly trapped. She wanted to yell at the strange sensation that made her chest tight. She really didn't want to talk to Madame Giry at the moment. She didn't feel like talking to anyone—not even Erik; she just wanted to see him.

* * *

Removing his headphones, which he set on top of the keyboard once he turned it off, Erik glanced at the time on his computer. He hadn't heard the voices out in the hall, but he abruptly had the urge to get into contact with Christine. He had just logged into his e-mail when he heard Madame Giry's muffled voice say, "Here you are, dear." It was followed by Christine thanking her. Since it sounded like they were closer to the kitchen, he migrated to his own to eavesdrop.

For once, Christine was quiet. They were both quiet. It was greatly frustrating.

_'Why aren't they talking? Why is she there, anyway?' _

He hadn't heard any sounds of Little Giry, which had to mean that she was still out and about with friends, which made him wonder more why Christine was in the apartment. He felt possessive. He didn't like that she was over there. He wanted her over at his place, which was ridiculous (and bad). More than anything, he wanted to know the reason for her stopping by.

Christine sighed, her hands wrapped around her mug as she stared at the chocolate liquid out of which steam rose. "I haven't had instant in awhile." She cracked a smile. "I'm afraid that I've been spoiled. We always make ours from scratch."

Madame Giry sat down with her own mug of hot chocolate and murmured, "Hmm. I can imagine."

"Instant hot chocolate. Heh. Reminds me of the good ol' days."

The woman jabbed, "Sorry it doesn't have marshmallows in it."

Christine laughed. "That's okay. …I feel like a kid again. I feel like I should check to see that my glasses are on. I'm actually a little panicked that they're not on my face." Another laugh popped from her as she rubbed at her temples then the bridge of her nose. After a moment, she hesitantly confessed, "I miss you…but, at the same time, I can't…I can't…you know."

"Be around me?"

The girl winced but nodded, her eyes turning downcast so that they regarded her hot beverage. "I do miss you, though."

"I miss you, too." She blew on her drink then carefully sipped it. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Christine shook her head.

"Do you want to talk about tonight?"

She now emitted a wry laugh. "No… I've never cried in front of you, and I'm not about to start."

"You already did. You cried during the show. I saw it."

Christine refuted, "That's different. That's…in the dark and hidden…and not direct. I wasn't aware that you were watching me."

"Christine, you used to tell me everything. Don't shut me out now. You should talk about it. It's healthier than keeping it in."

She tried hard to fight it, but Madame Giry's words worked. "It's not even the song that bothers me now. It's that Meg didn't think to warn me. She didn't think to warn me, and she didn't seem to remember…" She gritted her teeth and gripped the piping hot mug for a split-second, her hands soon sliding to her lap. "I'm angry, and I'm hurt. …I don't want to talk about it. I'm too pissed off." She chuckled, smiling ruefully. Lifting the mug, she blew on it and took a cautious sip. It was still too hot to drink, so she set it back down.

"Meg was young when you two first met, and she had a lot on her mind tonight. She loves you. She'd do anything for you. You know that."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I didn't want to ruin her night. I didn't want to be a psycho and be all, 'Do you know why I cried? I cried because that song reminded me of my mother! Do you even care?'" She laughed, but her heart hurt. "I know that she cares about me. Besides, I get tired of telling people about how much I miss my parents. It's been years. I'm basically over it. It just sucks when shit like this pops up—excuse my language."

Madame Giry blinked and laughed out of shock. "You never swear."

"I do when I'm agitated." She cracked a lopsided grin. "Wouldn't my father be _so _pleased to hear such unladylike language from me?"

The woman across from her agreed, "He never did like swearing."

"He said once, 'For every curse word, there has got to be a better, cleaner word for it.' It's why I try not to say 'So-and-so was bitching'. I try to say that they were _complaining_, but sometimes I slip up and say 'bitching'."

Madame Giry nodded. "That's understandable. There are so many lovely words that it's a shame to choose some of the basest ones. I'm sure that you'd rather be articulate and sound intelligent than uneducated and crass."

"I do indeed."

After this, they fell quiet. They drank their hot chocolate in silence, leaving Erik frustrated and hungry for more. He stood with his ear near the wall for what seemed forever before Christine said, "I should get home. I'm pretty tired."

"I'll drive you." He heard mugs set upon the counter.

"Okay. …Madame?"

"Yes?"

"…Thank you for tonight."

"You're welcome. It's a shame that we're both so busy. …Meg tells me that Erik's your vocal teacher."

Now, his heart raced. What would she say back?

"Oh. Yeah. He is."

"Hmm. You'll have to sing for me sometime."

Christine promised, relieved that this was all that her friend said, "I will." Erik smiled simply because he could hear the smile in her voice. "One of these days. Someday. Eventually."

"Good. I miss you."

"I miss you, too."

From the sounds of movement, he assumed that the two hugged. His neighbor said, "Let's get you home."

Before Christine left, however, she requested, "Could you not mention this to Mama Valerius? She's probably already asleep—or at least ready to go to bed—but I'd like it if this stayed between us. I don't want her needlessly worrying."

"Sure, dear."

"Thank you."

All of a sudden, he heard the door close. He went to his own, his hand pressing against it with longing. He didn't want her to go. Just having her in the vicinity filled his heart with joy. When the sound of elevator doors opening hit his ears, his heart broke. He had no idea that Christine had glanced at his door more than once (first, while Madame Giry locked up; second, while the woman dug through her purse for her car keys as they waited for the elevator). If he did, he might have felt a little happier. Instead, he felt agitated. He paced around his apartment, going from room to room with no real purpose. He could still feel Christine's tension in his heart. He needed her to let everything out so that he could go back to being happy, because he was only happy when she was happy. Before her, he didn't really know joy, so he couldn't stand the mere thought of her unhappiness. She needed to be happy. If she were unhappy, it unbalanced him.

He finally settled at his computer. He wrote an e-mail, hoping to entice one from her. He kept it simple.

_Dear Christine, _

_How was the show? I'm sorry that I couldn't accompany you. I hope that you enjoyed it. _

_Sincerely, _

_Erik_

* * *

When she got home, Christine found that Mama Valerius had already prepared for bed. The two women greeted each other pleasantly and even hugged before Madame Giry stated, "I'd stay, but it's late. I need to get back."

"That's fine," Mama Valerius said, touching her long hair as it hung down for once. "I wasn't expecting you to drop off Christine."

"Well, it would have been silly not to. Besides, I wanted more time to catch up."

"That makes sense. I'll let you get going, but we should have coffee one of these days."

Madame Giry smiled and nodded. "Yes. Good night!"

"Good night!" She shut the door, only a little embarrassed that the other woman caught her in her nightgown and robe. Fixing onto Christine, she gave her charge a hug and a kiss to forehead, stroking her hair as she asked, "Did you have a good time?"

"I did. You'll really enjoy it when you see it on DVD."

Her guardian smiled. "I'm sure I will. I'm pretty tired, so I'm going to bed, but I'm glad you had fun. I love you. Good night."

"Love you, too. Good night."

Upstairs and too upset to go to sleep, Christine had herself a good cry. Part of what made her so sad was that missing her mother made her think of her father, how they had grieved together, so she thought of both her parents at once. It was like an anvil on her chest.

She wanted to call Erik, but she was afraid that it was too late, so she checked her e-mail, planning to write him. To her relief, he had opened the door to communication: he had already sent her one. It wouldn't bother him terribly if she happened to respond to his e-mail.

_Dear Erik, _

_I'll try not to ramble. Hopefully, this e-mail will be semi-straightforward. _

_The show was beautiful. I enjoyed it. There was one song, however, that got to me. It's called "Passage" by Vienna Teng. Here's a link: _

She went off to find a proper link to give him then returned to the e-mail.

_They cut some of it for the show so that the dance wouldn't be too long. _

_There's a lot of it that gets to me, but one line actually disturbs me: _

"_They burned me till I glowed and crumbled to a fine, gray sand…" _

_My mother was cremated. ((breaks down sobbing)) She died in the spring. We had a service for her in Denver, but my father and I went to Pennsylvania to spread her ashes. That summer, he and I went to Sweden. I think he needed the comfort. _

_Why didn't Meg warn me? Is it my fault? Did I not mention my mother's death enough? It probably got overshadowed by my father's death. She was there for my father's death; she knows what my triggers are on that. I guess I don't blame her for not remembering my mother. That was before we met. I never really talked about it…but I did at least mention it. _

_No, you know what? I don't blame Meg. I didn't mention it enough. It's my fault. ((breaks down again)) _

_I'm going to bed. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Sorry for dumping all this on you. I didn't know who else to tell. I hung out with Mme. Giry, but I couldn't bring myself to open up to her. When I got back, Mama Valerius was on her way to bed. I actually don't feel comfortable crying in front of her. I feel like, if I were to cry in front of her, that she'd try to tell me to toughen up. She's the type of person who cries very little and believes in showing your strength instead of your weaknesses – in being cheerful instead of wallowing. _

_Maybe not, though; maybe she'd hold me and stroke my hair and kiss my forehead. She's very loving and considerate toward me. Maybe I just don't want to ruin her night with it. Maybe I don't want to open up like that to her. Sometimes, I feel close to her; sometimes, she feels like a stranger._

_I'm confounded that I lacked the courage to open up to Mme. Giry. When my father died, I didn't talk much. The most I'd say to the people around me was that I missed him. It's that same feeling, that tension, that anxiety. I couldn't bring myself to talk to someone who practically raised me. How awful. I feel like a coward. I feel pathetic. _

_I don't know why I open up to you like I do or why it seems so scary to do so with anyone else. I don't know why I feel like you would understand, but I do. I know that other people must understand, but I still don't want to tell them. I think what it comes down to is that I want everyone else to think of me as happy-go-lucky and the good listener, the shoulder to cry on. Maybe I'm just scared to trust my friends. I don't know. Either way, I feel like it's easiest to tell you. Truth be told, I think that it'd be harder to do so face to face. It's easier to just type away. Regardless, though, I still prefer telling you to other people. Maybe it's because you never knew my parents. Maybe it's because you're someone new, someone objective, someone who won't try to throw clichés at me. I don't know. _

_I think I'm justified, though, in being upset. Aren't I? (Err… "Am I not?") _

_Oh! Here we go again! Boy, this is turning into a great, big sob-fest! _

_I don't remember my mother very well, but I do remember her a little. She was very pretty, with long, blonde hair and hazel eyes, and I loved the scent of her perfume. I was always jealous of her clothes and jewelry. Sometimes, I'd sneak into her room, into her closet, just to touch her dresses as they hung there. _

_Her vision wasn't the greatest, so when she prepared for bed she'd exchange her contacts for her glasses. I remember that they had big, round, brown frames. Sometimes, in the morning, I'd go into the kitchen and find that she hadn't put in her contacts, so she made breakfast with her glasses on. If I had forgotten mine, this usually reminded me to go put them on. _

_Both my parents were friendly, affectionate people who liked to hug. Thinking back on it, I can't help but touch my hair as I remember how my mother used to kiss my head. Ahh! Shh! ((blinks away tears)) _

_My mother liked to dance in her spare time. She used to be a professional ballerina, but her Achilles tendon ruptured (more than once and eventually, after a few years, in both legs), and she had me to look after, so she stopped dancing professionally. She had matching scars on her heels. I used to trace them as I massaged her feet and rubbed lotion on them. _

_I think she always wanted me to be a ballerina, which is probably what got me sucked into it when I met Meg and Madame Giry. _

_She also liked to sing. She was in choir in high school, and she played accompaniment on the piano for the other choirs, even. I remember that her favorite Christmas carol was (believe it or not) "O Holy Night". I used to sing along to the recording of Sissel. One Christmas (the Christmas right before my sixth birthday, actually), my mother played accompaniment and sang it with me. Her voice wasn't very strong, but it wasn't bad. She told me that she loved listening to me sing – that it made her want to dance. _

_She had this music box that I loved; she kept her jewelry in it. I still have it in the garage, in a box somewhere. I remember that it was black—probably leather—and had multiple tiers. It had a gold clasp. I don't remember what it played right now, but maybe I'll hunt for it tomorrow and listen to it. _

_Sometimes, we'd just sit and listen to it together. I remember, one time, she let me try on a string of her pearls. She put make-up on me once. We'd sing together. I know this especially because of home videos – the ones that my dad couldn't bear to watch except once in a blue moon, so he tucked them in boxes. _

_Without video, I remember that she loved __**The Sound of Music**__. My father once told me that she told him, "When I was younger, I wanted nothing more than to be Brigitta. Oh, I wanted her long, dark hair!" I imagine her saying that every time I watch the scene where the children are introduced. It makes me smile. Apparently, she knew every word to every line in the entire thing. Truthfully, my love of the musical has nothing to do with her; I just like it because I like it, and because I like Julie Andrews. _

_My mother came from a wealthy family. Her parents died when she was in her twenties. I forget how. _

_She was from Pennsylvania, originally. My parents met in New York. My father played piano, played accompaniment for a class that she was in. He always said that she was a beautiful dancer. I can only imagine how wonderful it was for them the first time that he played the violin for her. _

_As I've mentioned, I was born in Sweden. They had me while they were on vacation. After that, we moved to Denver, because they didn't want to raise me in New York. I think they just picked a place at random. Lol. It wasn't really the best for my lungs, given the altitude. I think that's why I was on oxygen for so long. _

_Truth be told, it was her money that kept me and my dad afloat during the times where he wasn't getting as much work. There wasn't much money, though, and he wanted to save a lot of it for my college education. I'll get the money when I turn eighteen. I hope that it'll be enough to help me subsist, because I don't know if Mama Valerius will help me. I need to talk with her about it. _

_Have I ever shown you a picture of my mother? I'll attach one to this e-mail. _

_The picture that I've attached is (obviously) one of just the two of us. I'm sure you can tell, but that's me sitting in her lap, grinning like an idiot. Heh. My dad took the picture. I'm not wearing my glasses, because I don't like wearing my glasses in pictures. Only candid shots caught me with them. _

_My father helped me get over her death. Eep! More tears? I can't believe that I have any left! _

_Eww. This is getting gross. I need to go get tissues. _

_All right. Back to business. _

_As I said, my father helped me get over her death. He encouraged me to cry. He started talking about her, showing me that it was okay to. (Really? More tears/ sobs?) We looked through pictures together—watched home videos. We cried together. He held me and rocked me as we mourned. _

_He tried so hard to show me cheer and strength, but he never got over it. Sometimes, I caught him going through her old things—dresses, jewelry, perfume. Other times, I heard him crying from the other room. For a long time, he couldn't even play the violin. He made me keep singing, though, and playing the violin. We kept the piano, but we avoided it. At least, I did. My father played it from time to time. When we moved out here, from Denver, he put her things in storage – everything except the piano. It was her piano. …It's in storage now. A lot of my parents' things are in storage or the garage. Mama Valerius pays for it out of respect for me, and because it's not terribly expensive for her. _

_He played piano, but I never did. I refused to learn it. He didn't force me. _

_Oh, yay! More sobbing! How much more do I have left in me? Sheesh! _

_Heh. I said I wouldn't ramble, but I did, didn't I? At least it wasn't too much. _

_Thanks for listening. _

_Christine _

* * *

**A/N: I should ask my dad if he's ever been to New York. He grew up in Denver. I don't even know if he's been to the east coast. I know that my mom has traveled a lot, including France, Russia, and Japan. I'm not sure where else she has been, but I'm jealous. I wish I had the money to study abroad. ((sighs)) Someday… **

**Here are the songs that I mentioned: **

**CeCe Winans – "Alabaster Box" **

**Vienna Teng – "Passage" **

**Tori Amos – "Golddust" **

**Emmy Rossum – "Slow Me Down" (Yeah, I went there! XP) **

**Selena Cross – "Silence" **

**The Veronicas – "Untouched" **

**Please review! **

**Kagome-chan **


	12. Motivation

**A/N: Hello, all! Thank you for being patient! **

**I just have to share: I have never seen POTO live, but I'll be seeing it for the first time October 9th! I'm so excited!**

: D

**This isn't beta-read, so please excuse any typos. **

* * *

Chapter Twelve: Motivation

_Dear Christine, _

_It is not your fault. Meg is an inconsiderate twit. You shouldn't have to broadcast things that should be easy to remember. Once should be enough for anyone. _

_Of course you're justified! You can't always be happy. You're only human. It's understandable that that song would get to you. _

_Thank you for choosing to come to me. You can tell me anything. I'll always be here to listen. I'd call you, but you mentioned that you're going to bed. Sweet dreams. You deserve them after what you went through. Of course, you always deserve sweet dreams. _

_I'll see you tomorrow. Hopefully, getting sleep will help you recover. I'm looking forward to seeing your smile again as soon as you're ready to give it. _

_- Erik_

He was terribly forthcoming—downright forward—in this e-mail, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He loved her, and he just wanted to let her know at least a little of how he felt.

* * *

Since she went to Meg's show on Friday night, Christine wasn't busy on Saturday. She spent some time going through boxes in the garage, smiling at the memories. Though her heart ached, she didn't cry. Her lips hurt as she smiled, but she did smile. She found her mother's jewelry box. It had three tiers, which opened up, with a small mirror on the underside of the tiny lid. Encased in black leather, the clasp was golden, as was the crank for the music box, which was at the back, near the bottom. She couldn't bring herself to look at the contents of it, but she listened to the music as she sat on the cement, staring off into space. The melody was pretty, but she couldn't remember what it was called. She couldn't remember where she had heard it before, so she assumed that she just recognized it from her childhood. The most she could remember was that it had been a gift from her father to her mother.

The aching in her heart became too much: she closed up the jewelry box and folded the flaps of the cardboard in which it was stowed. She left everything behind in the dark as she stepped back into the bright kitchen.

In the living room, she sat on the floor to see better as she surfed through channels. Erik was due over soon for a piano lesson, but she figured that she'd kill time by watching TV. She shivered in her thin shirt and jeans, her sock-clad feet tucked under her crossed legs. She wished that she could do what she used to do at home—in the house in Denver, as well as in her apartment with her father. She used to take a quilt and wrap it around herself as she sat and watched TV. Mama Valerius didn't like this for some reason, and she didn't like the way that Christine sat so close to the TV. It made Christine sigh: the woman didn't understand her vision problems.

A grin formed as she discovered that _Somewhere in Time _was on one of the movie channels. Made in the eighties, the movie had been one of her mother's favorites. Therefore, it became one of her father's favorites. Sadly, they didn't own it. She wished that they had, because then it'd be somewhere in the garage with all of her other old movies that didn't make it into the entertainment center.

Given that it was on now, she decided to watch it. She gasped when the piece from her mother's music box started up with it being played on a record. This was why the music box that her father gave played this tune.

Her heart sank when, an instant later, she heard the familiar knock on the door. This meant that she couldn't finish the movie. Heaving a sigh, she turned off the TV, stood, and moved to the foyer to greet Erik.

When they hugged, she sighed. Her smile lacked its usual radiance, and her eyes were dim. It broke Erik's heart, but it wasn't unexpected.

"Shall we?" he prodded. She tried to smile more as she nodded.

Part of her wanted a violin lesson, but she was too scared. She was still shaky playing by herself, in the privacy of her own room, even. She'd break if she tried to have a lesson with Erik. However, he insisted on starting up piano lessons with her.

The first thing he told her was that, in spite of how she liked to bite her nails, they were too long for both the piano and the violin (which she already knew). He warned, "You'll want to keep them short, and you'll want to stop biting them. It's bad for you in general. You'll also want to stop biting your lips."

She meekly agreed.

Mama Valerius had a great deal of fun with this lesson, pointing out that she had already said much of this to Christine—such as her left hand was always too loud; she needed to ease up on it and strengthen her right hand to match the power of the hand that she used all the time. The only thing that the woman didn't like was how close Erik stood to Christine, who sat on the piano bench. Thankfully, any time that Erik aimed to demonstrate something, Christine had the presence of mind to hurry off the bench and let him sit to show her—instead of him leaning in.

To the great dismay of both pianists, Erik sent her back to the basics, citing, "You can't expect to play complex pieces with your technique. To put it bluntly, your technique is atrocious." Christine laughed with disbelief, her eyebrows up. Her instructor turned his eyes on Mrs. Valerius to say, "_Madame, _I'm quite surprised that you're not stricter with her." The woman gaped, surprised to feel ashamed. Erik returned his focus to his pupil, to whom he stated, "Your fingers are like cliff-divers when they should be more like mountain-climbers! I realize that you have very tiny hands that can only stretch so far, but we will find a way to modify songs if you can't play chords as they are written. Now, you want your fingers right up near the black keys—and don't let your wrist hang like that! –But keep it loose!"

It only got worse.

"You don't even know your scales! Until you do, you won't learn anything too advanced. However, I don't want you to learn them by rote; I want you to understand them. Therefore, we will be working more on your music theory. You will learn about how notes work together, the relationships between them—such as intervals—triads, in regard to your scales.

"You need to work more on your Hanon exercises; your finger action should be sharper—like a snake ready to strike. Your fingers need to go up high so that you build up your muscles, so that you have power to play your notes. Your thumb-unders need to be quicker—in and out very quickly. It will enable you to play faster when the time comes. If you practice this way, it will build into your muscle memory faster as well.

"Right now, you rely on your wrist muscles for power. That is absolutely the wrong way to play; your wrist must be relaxed, and your fingers must do the work. I want you to practice lifting your fingers without even playing—while you're sitting at the computer, while you're watching TV, at school, whenever possible. Rest your hand on your thigh, letting everything relax, and practice lifting each finger up and down, very controlled. It will build up your muscles."

Christine smiled and nodded but whimpered on the inside. She didn't like the piano to begin with, and now Erik was going to drill her on it. It'd be a miracle if she didn't hate the instrument by the time that her new teacher was done with her. She knew that she'd practice, because she already feared Erik's wrath. He wouldn't be cruel, but she feared disappointing him. If she didn't practice, he'd grow frustrated, which would mount into anger or disappointment. She'd feel unworthy of his instruction and would hate herself for losing any of his respect.

She felt like learning piano was akin to taking a bitter vitamin or medicine that would improve her health. She knew that she should take it…but she didn't want to. It was like how she was horrible at swallowing pills due to her sensitive gag reflex: she'd just have to hold her breath and choke it down.

Sensing this, Erik put his hand on her shoulder, soothing, "It won't be all that you learn. You'll learn songs, of course, because we need to work on your musicality, but these will be the building blocks that you need to reach your potential. It's like all the vocal exercises that you do: you wouldn't be able to sing the songs if you didn't have the technique gained through practicing the exercises. Once you get the technique down, you'll be so much freer to play. You'll have fun. I promise. We will find a way to make it entertaining."

Again, she smiled and nodded, but she still feared that she would never have fun on the piano. Insult to injury, she felt rather embarrassed that Erik had to treat her like a little kid who knew nothing about the piano. It occurred to her that it was like her singing: she thought that she knew a lot, but she knew nothing. Erik easily gave her a reality check that felt like he splashed cold water in her face.

"It will be good for you to learn the piano," her teacher reiterated. "It will help you learn more about music, and you'll be able to play your own accompaniment."

Laughing, she cried, "That's why you'll always be around: so I don't have to play my own accompaniment."

He shook his head, admonishing her with a combination of his eyes, his smile, and his words. "No, no. I will be more than happy to accompany you, but I refuse to be your crutch. I would like very much to see the day that you can sit at any random piano and impress people by playing and singing at the same time."

She groaned in childish complaint, and he rebuked, "Don't be like that. It's not attractive. You're acting like a little girl. You're seventeen; it's time that you start showing a little more maturity and dedication. You have so much more talent in you, but your laziness gets in the way. Trust me, Christine: I know that you're upset now, but you will come to love the piano. I know you will."

Christine wondered why this felt like the first time that Erik spoke her name. It was oddly breathtaking this time around and seemed to explode in her mind. She abruptly liked her name even more now.

Smiling at her new fondness for her own name, she conceded, "I do love this piano. The keys are like silk." She caressed them without tapping or pressing down on them.

"It's a beautiful instrument. You should take full advantage of it. There are plenty of pianists who would kill for the opportunity to play on such a lovely instrument."

She sighed but agreed, "I'll work on it."

"That's all I ask."

Trying to be teasing instead of irritable, his pupil inquired, "Are you going to make me learn every instrument known to man?"

He chuckled. "No, just the ones that you show interest in pursuing, ones that you reveal talent in. I really mean it: you will come to love the piano once you develop the necessary technique to excel in it."

"I sure hope so." She sighed again. "I do feel a fondness for it sometimes."

"That fondness will blossom into a great love if you let it. I know that you detest hard work, but life can't be all fun and silliness. That's mostly why I want to teach you piano: I want to teach you discipline. I think that this discipline will transfer into your other forms of music. You'll be a better musician in general and a well-rounded person. It will be good for you."

He breathed an internal sigh of relief when Christine's shoulders relaxed, she smiled sweetly at him, and she said, "I know." He was quite terrified that pushing her this way would earn her wrath. He was afraid that she'd come to dislike him. There was still a chance of that, but he felt better upon seeing her smile. It gave him hope that their hard work would pay off.

"Are we done?" Christine questioned.

"Yes, we're done."

She flew from the piano to the TV, turning it back on. On her knees, she waited impatiently, bouncing a little as she sat on her feet, for the image to appear on the screen. She groaned when she found that the credits were just finishing up. "Damn! Ah, and I missed seeing which song that was! Damn!" She laughed at herself and heaved a sigh. "Oh well."

Erik inquired, "Is something wrong?"

Christine smiled ruefully at him and murmured, "No, not really. There was just this movie on TV that—Oh! I can see when the next showings are!" She hurried to grab the remote from its place on the nightstand next to the couch. She needed to find the showings before the time changed and got rid of the movie title on the guide. "Oh, no! This was the only showing!" She laughed even though she was disappointed. "Oh well."

Curious and worried, Erik questioned, "What was this?"

She stared at the screen dismally as a promotion for the channel came up. "Just a movie that I wanted to watch."

"If you had told me, I could have postponed your lesson."

She shrugged. "It's okay." She felt like crying, though. It occurred to her that she could ask Erik about the melody, for her would surely know it, but now she didn't want to. She figured that this was meant to stay private—to belong only in her heart. Sighing, she murmured, "I don't even remember it all that well."

In an instant, he realized that this film must have sentimental value with her, which must mean that she watched it with her parents at some point—or it tied into them somehow. Thus, Erik was angry that Christine hadn't watched it, hadn't asked him to watch it. He was angry that she had turned off the TV and let him spend the time that she could have been watching it on something that she didn't even enjoy at this point.

An idea hit him, and he asked, "What was the movie called?"

Christine grinned at him without knowing why. "Umm…_Somewhere in Time_. It was made in the eighties. It's basically about this guy who falls in love with this girl through seeing her picture, so he hypnotizes himself so that he can go back in time and meet her. It's kind-of far-fetched, obviously, but my mom really liked it. She had this thing for time-traveling and past lives. She loved the _Back to the Future _series."

He laughed. "I think that I actually know that series. It's the one with the scientist who builds a time machine out of a car, right?"

She guffawed at his summation. "Right! Christopher Lloyd and Michael J. Fox. …I love Michael J. Fox! Hehe!"

Erik nodded, smirking at his plan to buy her impromptu gift. Without warning, an odd urge filled him, bidding him to request, "Why don't you go get your flute?" He was only vaguely afraid that the instrument would remind her of her father and therefore cause her pain. It occurred to him that he might use it as a way of easing her into the violin again. There was sentimental value to the thing without the direct link of her father's teachings. It would have been Christine's own instrument; it was more a piece of herself instead of her father, though the instrument had the potential to remind her of her father.

Christine questioned, "Huh?" She was quite sure that she misheard him.

"Would you mind getting your flute? I'd like to see it."

Mama Valerius lit up, pressing her palms together as she cried, "I'd love to hear you play the flute, Christine! It's been years!"

Blinking, the young musician supplied, answering Erik, "No… No, I don't mind. I'll…be right back." She left the room with a furrowed brow. She couldn't even remember where her flute was. She vaguely recalled that it was somewhere in her room, so she went upstairs.

Like the rest of the house, the floor was hardwood. On her immediate left was the computer desk; on her right, taking up almost an entire wall was her closet with its large, mirrored panels. Before her, her petite, twin-sized bed sat against the wall, underneath a window with white curtains covered with yellow and blue flowers—to match her bedspread. The gold touch lamp on the nightstand was pretty with frosted panes decorated with flowers.

At the foot of the bed, also pressed against the wall, was her bookshelf, which was short like she was, consisting of four very wide shelves. Knick-knacks lined the top of it: a couple of scented candles that she never used, including a lilac one; a vase with silk flowers in it; a couple of porcelain figurines, as well as a couple of crystal ones lined with gold; and the music box that Erik gave her. For the two porcelain figurines, they were both of little girls in gowns with angel wings edged in gold. One was of a blonde girl in a blue, short-sleeved gown with gold trim; she wore a golden crown and held a magic wand with a gold star on the end of it. A white "9" sat before her. The other was a blonde in an identical gown, only pink; she held a hand mirror, a white "12" adorned with little blue flowers before her. The back of the hand mirror had a little blue flower on it as well. The figurines were birthday presents from Madame Giry; she thought that they looked like her, which was why she bought them. As for the crystal figurines, one was a horse, from a carousel, including its stand; it had a gold saddle. The other was a fairy whose wings, hair, hands, and skirt were fringed with gold. These last two had been gifts from her father. Unfortunately, a portion of the fragile fairy's stand had broken off and gotten lost. Instead of "flying," she lay on her side. It always made Christine want to giggle and jokingly clap her hands.

She was aiming to get another bookshelf to go next to it for Christmas since her current one was already crammed full of books.

She found herself pointlessly regarding her computer desk despite knowing that her flute wouldn't be anywhere near it. Her tower and monitor shared space on the thing; the former was a compact, silver thing while the latter was a flat-screen to match (one with built-in speakers). Her keyboard and optical mouse weren't in sight; they were rolled under into hiding. She randomly noted that she was due for a new mouse pad—something sturdier than the current spongy one with flowers and kittens on it. Her modem sat on the edge opposite of the tower; a black desk lamp sat in the corner behind it. Aside from this, the desk had a few papers on it. Everything else she kept in the drawers beneath the tower.

Gripping her blue swivel chair, she pursed her lips as she tried to remember where she had last placed her flute. Her eyes roved over the final wall. She got distracted when she observed that she really needed to decorate it. It was entirely blank. She was just too lazy and too un-artistic to do so. Her eyes fell upon her two white dressers pushed into the corner near the bathroom door. There was a touch lamp in the corner of the dresser on the left, placed there to be close to the outlet; it matched the one on her nightstand. The rest of the space got taken up by a CD player. A porcelain doll collection occupied the other dresser. There were seven total. A couple appeared to represent certain nationalities. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed Swedish girl stuck out like a sore thumb in spite of there being two other blondes in the collection. Aside from one redhead, the rest of the dolls were brunette, for she found that she liked dolls with darker hair.

Between the computer desk and her dressers was wide open space, giving plenty of room to get to the adjoined bathroom, where the floor was faux marble. There was a burgundy bathmat outside the stall of the shower. A matching towel hung on the metal bar within arm's reach of the stall. There was a smaller room with the toilet beyond the main room; its white door hung halfway closed.

Shaking her head at the fact that she remained standing in the same spot, her hands still gripping her chair as she just stared at her bathroom door, Christine wondered, "Where did I put it? Hmm… The closet?" She regarded the three mirrored panels, thinking about sliding them open. "I don't think so. "Ah! I remember!"

Like she thought, it was under her bed. She had almost stored it in the garage, but her urge to have it within her grasp (even if she never used it) won out. She almost put it on the shelf in the large closet, but she hated how difficult it was for her to get things down from said shelf.

She paused and regarded her reflection on her way out of the room. She sighed and told it, "He really is going to make me play every instrument known to man, isn't he?" She cracked a smile, giggling as she vacated the room, shutting the door behind her. She scoffed when she realized that she'd need her silver, two-piece music stand.

Erik had said that he wanted to see her flute, but she knew that he aimed to give her a lesson on it. Setting her flute case on the bed, she dug around for the stand. It took up too much space to fit in the box with her violin sheet music, so she left it out of the box. She didn't put it in the closet because she feared that she'd never be able to get it down again.

Sighing once more, she gathered the stand pieces in her right hand and gripped the handle of her flute case in her left. She stopped in her tracks and questioned, "Wait. Why bring the stand if I don't know where any of my flute sheet music is? Ugh!" She put the metal pieces on the bed and hurried out of the room, wincing when she accidentally slammed her door. "I really need to be more careful!" She shook her head before jogging downstairs and speed-walking back to the living room.

She was quite nervous as she set her case on the coffee table and opened it. She was tense, fearful of Erik's reproach. And indeed, he sighed at the condition of the interior of her case: the grease-stained royal blue velvet and, most noticeably, her headjoint. She flinched when Erik lifted it from its groove and examined it, pursing his lips and shaking his head. Her heart broke when he murmured, "Poor thing…" It made her heart ache; she felt so guilty and hurt by Erik's disappointment. "I can repair it for you."

Filled with fear, Christine snatched it from him, crying, "Don't you dare!" She laughed before she elaborated, "If you give my flute cosmetic surgery, it won't be my flute anymore! It plays just fine, so, really, it's just aesthetics!"

"If you say so. Then again, the dent is rather small."

"Yes! Yes, it is! It's miniscule! It doesn't affect the sound at all!" She confessed, "I don't want my flute to be dazzlingly pretty. I don't know why; I just…like it like this." She shrugged with a grin.

Examining each piece of the flute, ending with the headjoint, Erik mused, "It's difficult to tell whether it was caused by your mistreatment of the headjoint or not. It's above where the headjoint inserts into the body. It's very small."

Christine flinched when he gasped upon rolling over the headjoint.

"It's scratched!"

"Huh?"

She recoiled a couple of inches when he shoved it in her face, pointing out the discoloration—the thin scratch marks. "What did you do to it?"

"I don't know!" She laughed but turned meek when Erik gave her a very chilling look with his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed.

"Hmph. I suspect that you don't."

She gaped at his condescending tone, quite offended. Her brow furrowed as she pursed her lips. _'Arrogant jerk!' _

Erik sighed. "Well, let's see if it really does play 'just fine,' as you say. How can you possibly know that, though, if you haven't played it in years?" Suddenly, he peeked into the open case and noted that there was only the metal rod in there. He turned to his student and demanded, "Where is your cleaning cloth?" The teen grinned sheepishly and shrugged helplessly, and he groaned. "You're hopeless. Do you even remember the last time that you cleaned it?" She offered up the same grin and shrug, and he sighed. "I'll get you some. For now, I just want to test the sound and see if I need to make repairs."

Christine wondered, "Do you mean _you _test the sound or me?"

"You, of course. It's your flute. I also need to see where you are. You played for four years, correct?"

She grimaced and hedged, "Technically, hmm…sure?" She confessed, "I don't remember any of it."

"In that case, we'll start from the very beginning."

She couldn't resist: she sang, _"A very good place to start!" _She blushed at the way that Erik just blinked at her. "Uhh…_ The Sound of Music_."

"I'm aware. I've seen it."

"You have?"

"Yes. I have watched many famous musicals, including _The Sound of Music_ and _My Fair Lady_, which I know are two of your favorites."

Christine grinned. "Cool." She frowned as she demanded with a furrowed brow, "Then why'd you look at me like I was crazy?"

"I didn't. All I did was blink."

"Yeah," she challenged, "but you didn't even smile or anything, so you left me feeling like a crazy idiot."

He smiled and murmured, "You might be crazy, but you're not an idiot. You're just a little eccentric." She laughed, so his smile turned into a full-on grin. "Shall we?"

In an attempt to be cute as she beseeched him, Christine grinned and tucked her arms behind her as she swayed. "Mind putting it together for me? I don't want to injure it any more than I already have."

"Hmm. Good point." She deadpanned, but he just snickered. As he put it together, he mumbled, "I think that I will take it with me when I leave—so that I can give it a proper cleaning."

Christine shrugged. "All right." She nervously accepted her instrument from her teacher.

"The worst I'll do is correct you."

Mama Valerius urged, "Yeah! Go on! Play something."

Erik instructed, "Just blow a bit of warm air through it first and then play a scale—play C major."

Christine nodded and followed his advice. Her left eye closed as she grimaced when her highest note turned out ear-splitting.

Shutting his eyes at the god-awful sound, Erik groaned, "Mmm… Ouch!" then questioned, "What's the deal with your high notes? You have this timidity about them that makes you fail before you even get there." He sighed. "We'll work on it. Do you have any of your old sheet music?"

"Yeah…somewhere." She grinned sheepishly again.

"Look for it. Have it ready by next Saturday. I'll have your flute back by then. We'll start then. But first, play that scale again—this time, with eighth notes. I want to hear how you articulate notes."

He couldn't stop his lip from curling at her lack of proper technique. He had his work cut out for him.

"That's enough." He reached out his hand, gesturing for it, clearly ready to disassemble it.

Withholding it, Christine requested, "Would you play something?"

"Right now?"

"Yeah."

He glanced at the mouthpiece and questioned, "Do you have a soft cloth with which to wipe it?"

Blushing, Christine offered, "Umm…I don't know. Kleenex?" She flinched when Erik scoffed.

"Kleenex! That won't do." He promised, wary of her disappointment, "I'll play for you next week. I'll bring my flute. We'll play together."

His heart seemed to break a little when she sighed and smiled sadly. Nonetheless, she cried, "Okay! Deal!"

She handed over the flute for Erik to take apart and put away. She paid careful attention to how he did so, particularly since Erik urged, "Pay attention—for future reference." As he placed the final piece in its groove, he murmured (mostly to himself), "You need to work on your articulation. I suspect that you didn't practice double tonguing much."

"Double tonguing? What's that?" She clapped her hands over her giggling mouth at the look that Erik gave her: narrowed eyes, slack jaw, and this air of exasperation like he contemplated turning and walking out of the room (which he would never do).

He tried to speak, but nothing would come. His tongue would barely move.

Christine laughed and lamented, "Oh, no! I made you speechless! That's not a good sign!"

"Double tonguing," he said with great care, his voice slow since his brain couldn't handle the shock, "is… Double tonguing is…" He shook his head and snapped, "I can't believe you don't know what double tonguing is! _Mon Dieu _! _Incroyable! Je n'y crois pas_!"

She didn't know how to react to his disbelief (which was apparently so great that it got him ranting in French). She wanted to whimper and possibly hug him to make him forget her ignorance. It was really embarrassing. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, he said, "We really will have to start from the very beginning." He sighed. "Oh well. It's probably better that you have no habits—bad or good. I can instill the right ones in you."

"Well, I wouldn't say that I have no bad habits. From what I recall, my pinky finger in my right hand was always very weak."

He surmised, "That's probably because you're left-handed, and your left pinky would have to have been strengthened with the violin. Thank you for telling me, though; I'll keep that in mind. You should work on strengthening—not just for the flute but for the piano as well."

She nodded, highly intimidated. She hated that she was pouting. She hated that she didn't like Erik like this. Somehow, he seemed nicer when he was being strict about singing…or maybe she was just more tolerant of this behavior with singing because she loved it so much. She only vaguely cared about the piano and the flute—barely at all! And now Erik was going to be a merciless tyrant as he drilled her on them.

"Oh, no!" she bemoaned.

Unaware of her thought process, Erik chuckled and responded, "Oh, yes! Practice, practice, practice—that's what you need!" His amusement evaporated at the little cry of pain that Christine gave. "What? What is it? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." However, she sobbed then laughed. Erik decided that he better not inquire further into her evidently unbalanced mind. He imagined that he would be happier nor knowing—even as he worried for her and her debatable sanity. It was a sobering yet hopeful thought: maybe he wasn't in love with her. Maybe he was just infatuated. But did infatuation make one's heart ache? He thought not.

He didn't stay for dinner, but Christine stuffed down her disappointment and gave him a nice hug goodbye at his car, once he tucked her flute in the trunk.

Given that it was Saturday, and that they met up earlier in the afternoon, it would be another couple of hours before dinner was ready. While Christine wiled away the time on the computer, Erik couldn't stop cackling as he drove home. Infatuation or not, he had found a way to steal more time with Christine—one more instrument, one more lesson. It didn't occur to him that two or three lessons in one day were bound to be hectic and stressful, because Christine already handled her weekday lessons so well: singing, acting, and languages (which, technically, could be considered three lessons themselves instead of just one). He knew already that she was a hard worker, and he had faith that she could handle it. The girl loved to learn, after all. She was quite voracious for knowledge, eager to devour it and eager to share it.

He loved the way that she would light up when he praised her, though he disliked that she continued to doubt herself. Then again, her modesty was adorable…but it was also frustrating.

'_Give it time,' _he urged himself. _'She'll gain more confidence and lose her doubts with time. Just give it time.' _

Once inside the apartment, he made a beeline for his computer and went online, purchasing the DVD of _Somewhere in Time_. It would take a few days to be delivered, but he was terribly proud of himself. He could give it to Christine on Wednesday evening, and she'd be so surprised and happy! He'd get a hug; he'd see that excited smile; he'd see those pretty blue eyes glitter at him. Most importantly, Christine would love him for it.

Forsaking dinner since he was hungry yet didn't feel like eating, Erik sat in his music room and opened up Christine's flute case. He left things as they were in order to remove his mask and wig, placing them in their respective spots on his bust. When he returned to the room, he reclaimed his seat and lifted the mouthpiece to what constituted his pathetic nose. There was nothing—no odor. He didn't think that there would be; he just wanted to be sure.

He wasn't even aware of what he was doing when he pressed his lips to her mouthpiece. His tongue even swished and flicked against the edge of that tiny hole, her mouth flashing in his mind's eye. He mostly tasted metal, but there was a hint of something else—something he couldn't place. Whatever it was, it had to belong to Christine's mouth. Was it a hint of something that she ate or drank?

He couldn't stop running his tongue along it. He wasn't aroused; he just liked that he could taste where Christine's lips had been, where her breath had gusted. It made him giddy. He'd miss it terribly once he gave it back.

He hated himself for doing something so strange and disgusting to an instrument. The fact that it Christine's instrument just made it worse. She would have no idea; she would just innocently play it, completely unaware of what he had done.

Soon getting over this moment of weirdness, he began his thorough check-up. He played through scales. The pads were just the tiniest bit sticky—hardly at all, but he wouldn't let it slide; he'd fix that. Aside from the surface damage, the flute was fine; it just needed intense cleaning.

Humming nothing in particular, he smiled as he cleaned it, inside and out, polishing away any fingerprints on the exterior.

By the time he was done, the flute gleamed. He laughed as he tucked it in. He loved teaching Christine in general, but he couldn't wait for the first flute lesson. He couldn't wait to spend more time with her.

* * *

**A/N: Uh-oh! Lol. Erik's still falling fast and hard…and getting creepier. Hehe. **

**Personally, I wouldn't want to be in love with someone so creepy…but it's fun/ fascinating to write! Lol. And the best part for me is when I think on how Christine will never know! Every time she goes to play the flute…hehehe. **

"**Double tonguing? What's that?" was my reaction to a tutorial video that made me realize that I know nothing about an instrument that I played for four years. Damn public education/ lack of private tutor! Grr!**

**Now, please excuse my rambling. For those interested in reading more about me, read on; for the others, I hope that you'll review! **

* * *

**Creepiness aside, I'm in the mood to play my flute. I need a flute teacher. I could be amazing at it if I had one! **

**I'm so glad that my dad's not that strict. Though, if he were, I'd probably be better at the piano. Lol. **

**It's sad: I don't do my father's teaching justice. Why can't I love the piano like I love the violin (or even the flute)? …Or why can't I just have a violin to learn? XD No, no…I should take the time to learn the piano, because it will make me a better musician, and I should take advantage of having a VERY skilled pianist for a father. Free lessons! Lol. …I'm just so lazy! **

**Oh, how Erik would cringe at my piano playing! My technique is horrible, and I'm too lazy to practice…and yet, I don't want to give up on it, because there's a part of me that likes the piano. **

**I started learning it when I was thirteen, but I didn't have the attention span for it. Six to seven years later, with more maturity, I took it up again…but I suck, because I don't practice. Lol. **

**I just need motivation! ((runs off to watch **_**Nodame Cantabile**_**)) Hehe! It's what started me picking back up in the first place! **

**Fans of anime who happen to be reading this, you will LOVE it! It's so funny, and it's FULL of classical music. It's the fun way to experience classical music. There's also a live drama version of it, but I prefer the anime. **

**You might also like **_**La Corda d'Oro**_**. In my opinion, it's not as awesome as **_**Nodame**_**, but it's pretty good. I'd kill to be handed a magical violin. Of course, I'd kill just to be able to learn a violin the old-fashioned way. **

**: ) **

**Ironically, for the time being, I have moved to L.A. I feel so sorry for my characters now. I have condemned them to a crowded, ugly city. Lol. I'm sure there are beautiful areas of L.A., but this place is not my cup of tea. I miss my old place. It figures that I'd get awesome neighbors in the last couple of months in my old neighborhood. Now, I have to make new friends, but I already have, so things are looking up! **

**Not that you care, but I never told you how my song went for my French class: the sound on my DVD didn't work in the computer, so I was screwed. Lol. I had the choice of singing "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again" a cappella, but I just knew that I'd bust out the English/ forget the French, so I went on YouTube and did **_**"Vivre," **_**forgetting that it's not really a good song for me. It was the last day of class before we took our final, and that's how I ended it. I wanted redemption! Oh well. **

**Also, when I was warming up before class that day in one of the practice rooms, one of the girls in the little music library across the way knocked on my door. I asked, "Oh! Am I not supposed to be singing?" **

**She said, "No! We were just wondering who was singing!" And then she asked me to join their choir, but I already knew that I wasn't coming back to school there, so I told her that. "Well, maybe if you do come back, you can talk to our director."**

"**Yeah." I figured that they must have been desperate. One of my friends from high school choir said that their choir sucked. Haha. **

**Please review! **

**Kagome-chan **


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